
Class _? it „5j3^fe^ 
Book ^Lg 



Copyright N" 



\«>o 2. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOStr. 



IRIS 



BV THE SAME AUTHOR 



TRELAWNY OF THE "WELLS' 

With Illustratioiis in Color, etc., $1.50 



THE GAY LORD QUEX 

Fully Illustrated , $1.25 



R. H. RUSSELL, PUBLISHER. NEW YORK 



LONEKOJr: WILLIAM HEINEMANN 



IRIS 

A DRAMA IN 
FIVE ACTS 



By , 
ARTHUR W. PINERO 




NEIV rORK 

R. H. RUSSELL 

MCMII 



Copyright, 1900 

All rights reserved 

Entered at Stationers' Hall 

Entered at the Library of 

Congress, Washington, 

U. S. A. 






THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Cowfcb Rtcsiveo 

OCT. §V 1902 

CnPVn«»HT ENTRY 

OUASS'fi'XXc No, 
COPY B. 



Copyright, 1902, by 
Robert Howard Russell 



This Play was first acted 
at the Garrick Theatre, Lon- 
don, on Saturday, September 
21, 1901. 






:^ 



THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY 

Frederick Maldonado 

Laurence Trenwith 

Croker Harrington 

Archibald Kane 

Colonel Wynning 

Servant at Mrs. Bellamy's in Kensington 

Servant at the Villa Prigno 

Iris Bellamy 

Fanny Sylvain 

AuREA Vyse 

Mrs. Wynning 

Miss Pinsent 

Woman-servant at the Villa Prigno 

Woman-servant at the Flat in Park Street 



THE FIRST ACT 

LONDON. MRS. BELLAMY'S HOUSE IN KEN- 
SINGTON 



THE SECOND ACT 

ITALY. THE VILLA PRIGNO AT CADENABBIA 
ON THE LAKE OF COMO 



THE THIRD ACT 
THE SAME 

THE FOURTH ACT 
LONDON. A FLAT IN PARK STREET 

THE FIFTH ACT 
THE SAME 



In both the First Act and the Third the action is 
divided into three Episodes, which are marked by the 
falling of the curtain. Between the Third Act and the 
Fourth two years are supposed to elapse. 



IRIS 



THE FIRST ACT 

The scene represents two drazving-roomS of equal size 
upon the ground floor of a house in Kensington. 
In the wall separating the rooms are tzvo arched 
entrances — the one on the right-hand side, the other 
on the left — and in the centre, between these en- 
trances, is a fireplace. Over the -fireplace is an 
opening, sliaped and framed lil^e a mirror; so that, 
with the view gained through the archways, the 
further room is almost entirely disclosed. In this 
further room, on the left, is a single door admitting 
to a small apartment ; in the centre, at the back, is 
a conservatory seen tJirough glazed doors; and on 
the right is a window affording a view of a garden. 
On the left-hand side of the room nearer the spec- 
tator are double-doors opening from the inner hall 
of the house ; and, on the right, facing these doors, 
there is a spacious circular bozi> in zvhich are three 
french-windozvs also looking on to the garden. The 
rooms are ricltly furnished and decorated. In the 
further room a grand piano — adorned zvith paint- 
ings in the style of Watteau and Lancret — and a 
music-stool stand by the zvindow. By the side of 
the piano is a chair; and on the other side of the 



IRIS 

room are tzi'o chairs, placed together, under the 
branches of a high palm. Against the zcalls are 
cabinets containing articles de vertu. In the nearer 
room there is an armchair on each side of the fire- 
place, and, facing the fireplace, a luxurious "Ches- 
terfield^' settee zi'ith a piece of rich silk draped 
over the back. Behind the settee stands a French 
ottoman. On the left of the room are a settee of a 
more formal kind, a table, and a "ziindow-stooV' ; 
and on the right a zvriting-table and tivo chairs — 
the one in front of the table, the other by the side 
of it. Also on the right, between the bozu and the 
entrance to the further room, another high palm 
shelters a smaller settee. There are Uowers in pro- 
fusion; some are arranged in vases and jardinieres, 
while a bank of blossom partially conceals the fire- 
place. 

The light is that of a fine evening in summer. 
The warm glow of sunset is seen in the garden and 
in the conservatory. 

[Note: — The descriptions of the scenery, and the 
directions for the movement of the characters, are 
set out as from the point of view of the audience. 
Thus, Right and Left are the spectator's right and 
left, not the actor's.] 

[Miss Pixsent, a cheerful young lady in dinner 
dress, is seated at the writing-table, vjriting. 
A man-servant enters from the hall. 

Servant. 

Mr. Kane. 

[Tlie servant is followed by Archibald Kaxe, 
a ''smart," zcell-tailored man of middle age. 
He carries an opera hat, zi'ears an orchid in 



IRIS 3 

his button-hole, and has an air of some au- 
thority. 

Miss Pixsent. 

[Advancing and shaking hands zvith him cordially.] 
How do you do? [To the servant, zvho zuithdrazi's.] 
Tell Mrs. Bellamy. [To Kane.] She is not down yet. 

Kane. 

Don't be scandalized at my premature appearance. 
She has asked me to give her a few minutes' talk before 
her guests arrive. 

Miss Pinsent. 

[Laughingly.] I see. For a quarter of an hour you 
are not a guest. 

Kane. 

[In the same spirit.] Merely a hard-working, con- 
scientious solicitor. And how are you, my dear Miss 
Pinsent? 

Miss Pinsent. 

I? [Again at the zvriting-table, putting the zuriting- 
materials in order.~] A woman who has the good for- 
tune to be attached to the household of such a sweet 
creature as Mrs. Bellamy can't be otherwise than robust 
and happy. 

Kane. 

I need not ask after her ; she was looking radiant 
at Hurlingham on Saturday. 

Miss Pinsent. 
Yes — out of the house. 



4 IRIS 

KL\XE. 
Nothing amiss, I hope? 

Miss Pixsext. 
She seems depressed, in low spirits. 

Kaxe. 
The end of the season — fatigue. 
Miss Pixsext. 
Scarcely. She has been fretting for weeks. 

Kaxe. 
Fretting ? 

Miss Pixsext. 
Brooding. 

Kaxe. 
Upon what? 

Miss Pixsext. 

What does my sex brood over? Religion, the affec- 
tions, the discover}^ of a grey hair, anything, ever}^- 
thing. [Retuniiitg to him.] I rather fancy the old 
grievance still irritates her occasionally. 

Kaxe. 

The old ? 

Miss Pixsext. 

Her husband's Will. 

Kane. 

Ho! Poor dear lady, will she never become recon- 
ciled to its conditions? 



IRIS 5 

Miss Pinsent. 

Never is a big word. After all, these are early days. 

Kane. 

She has been five years a widow. 

Miss Pinsent. 

She is only six-and-twenty now. 

Kane. 

And well-off, as far as her heedlessness in money- 
matters will permit of her being so. Let her compare 
her situation with that of other women. Six-and- 
twenty and independent ! 

Miss Pinsent. 
And unable to re-marry ! 

Kane. 

She could commit even that indiscretion if she 
pleased. 

Miss Pinsent. 

Under penalty of losing every penny of her income. 

Kane. 

If she married a rich man, her interest in her late 
husband's estate would be no longer indispensable to 
her. 

Miss Pinsent. 

Rich men generally have some odious quality to 
counterbalance their wealth. The men one would marry 
are as poor as mice. 



IRIS 



IC\XE. 

[SJiruggiHg his sJwuldcrs.] Well, Wills such as Mr. 
George Adair Bellamy's are common enough. 

Miss Pixsext. 

The more's the shame. [JVitJi mock severity.] I 
wonder you care to be a trustee under so iniquitous an 
instrument. 

Kaxe. 

Ha, ha ! the position isn't altogether a bed of roses. 
It has already worried my fellow-trustee, poor Mr. 
Cautherley, into his grave. However, we ought not 
to discuss Mrs. Bellamy's affairs too freely. 

Miss Pixsext. 

Of course not; I beg your pardon. [JVith a change 
of manner.] I say, Mr. Kane. 

Kaxe. 
Yes? 

Miss Pixsext. 

I wish you would render me a service. 

Kaxe, 

Delighted. 

Miss Pixsext. 

You are connected with a number of little concerns 
that pay decent dividends, aren't you — nice, snug little 
schemes that the public isn't allowed to dip its hands 
into? 

Kaxe. 
Who tells you so? 



IRIS 



Miss Pinsent. 

Mrs. Bellamy. She says you do wonders for her great 
friend, Miss Sylvain, and for Mr. Harrington. 

Kane. 
Well? 

Miss Pinsent. 

I've managed to scrape together nearly three hun- 
dred pounds. To you it's the merest trifle, but — [coax- 
ingly\ you might help a poor lady's-companion to in- 
crease her store. 

Kane. 
Ha, ha ! 

Miss Pinsent. 

Don't laugh. Let me come and see you, will you? 

Kane. 
Honoured. 

Miss Pinsent. 
la Lincoln's Inn Fields? 

Kane. 
[Writing on his shirt-cuff.} To-morrow? 

Miss Pinsent. 
[With a nod.] At what time? 

Kane. 



Four o'clock? 



Miss Pinsent. 



Oh, I'm awfully obliged; I — [listening] This is she, 
I think. 



8 IRIS 

[Iris, richly but delicately gowned, enters, at 
the door in the further room, drawing on 
her gloves. She comes to Kane and gives 
him her hand. She is a beautiful woman, 
with a soft, appealing voice and movements 
instinct with simple grace and dignity. 
Her manner is characterised by a repose 
amounting almost to languor. 

Miss Pinsent. 

[Taking from the writing-table the paper upon which 
she had been writing and presenting it to Iris.] The 
arrangement of the couples at dinner. 

[Iris slips the paper into her bodice, and Miss 
Pinsent withdraws, passing through the 
further room. 

Iris. 

[Glancing into the further room, to assure herself 
that she and Kane are alone, then indicating the doors 
in the nearer room.] Is there a draught? 

[He closes the doors while she seats herself 
upon the ottoman. 

Iris. 

I want to talk to you, Archie, concerning a young 
man in whom I am slightly interested. 

Kane. 

[Sitting, facing her, upon the window-stool.] Oh yes. 

Iris. 
A Mr. Trenwith. 



i 



IRIS 9 

Kane. 
Do I know him? 

Iris. 

You may have met him ; he has been about this 
season a great deal. Surely I introduced him to you 
one night during "La Boheme"? 

Kane. 

Oh, is he the good-looking boy I have seen in your 
box at the opera several times recently ? 

Iris. 
Two or three times. 

Kane. 

His name had escaped me. And he was at Hurling- 
ham with you on Saturday, wasn't he? 

Iris. 

More with the Littledales than with me. I gave him 
a lift down. He's quite poor, you know. 

Kane. 

Really? He must have friends — the Littledales, for 
example. 

Iris. 

Women-friends who ask him to parties. They are of 
no use when even a cab-fare is a consideration. It oc- 
curred to me that you might be inclined to exert your 
influence in some direction or another in his behalf. 

Kane. 
What's his age? 



10 IRIS 

Iris. 
Twenty-eight, I am afraid. 

Kane. 
Whew! Ever done anything? 

Iris. 
He' has tried many things. 

Kane. 
[Ominously.] H'm ! 

Iris. 

His great misfortune was being ploughed for the 
army. That was a thousand pities. Lately he has been 
reading for the bar; but he finds he has no taste for 
law. His ear for music is wonderful, and he draws 
cleverly in pastel. 

Kane. 
The failures in Hfe are masters of the minor talents. 

Iris. 

[In gentle reproof.] Hush! And now his only rela- 
tive with money and position — an uncle who is an arch- 
deacon — has become disheartened. You would expect 
an archdeacon to be sympathetic and patient, would 
you not? 

Kane. 
Beyond a certain point, I would not. 

Iris. 
You are too cynical. At any rate, this uncle offers 



IRIS II 

him a few hundred pounds on the understanding that 
he goes out to a cattle-ranche in British Columbia — a 
dreadful place, a sort of genteel Siberia. I am so 
grieved for the boy. 

Kane. 
A difficult case. 

Iris. 
Don't say that. 

Kane. 

He belongs to a large class ; he is a young gentleman 
to whom it is absolutely essential that somebody should 
bequeath five-thousand-a-year. 

Iris. 
You will jest, Archie. 

Kane. 

My dear Iris, what career is there, apart from the 
criminal, for engaging but impecunious incapacity? In 
its usual course, it begins with a beggarly secretaryship, 
passes through the intermediate stages of a precarious 
interest in a wine business and a disastrous association 
with the Turf and the Stock Exchange, and ends with 
the selling, on commission, of an obsolete atlas or an 
unwieldy bible. 

Iris. 

[Shudderingly.] Terrible ! 

Kane. 
Will you follow my advice? 

Iris. 
[With a sigh of discontent.] Oh! 



12 IRIS 

Kane. 

Back up the archdeacon. Urge the young man to 
clear out without delay. 

[She rises and moves to the -fireplace, where 
she stands looking down upon the Howers. 

Kane. 
[Rising with her.] I appear extremely disagreeable. 

Iris. 

No, no. 

Kane. 

[Strolling over to the ivriting table and examining a 
photograph which he finds there.] This is Mr. Tren- 
with, is it not? 

Iris. 

[After a glance in his direction, sitting upon the set- 
tee facing the -fireplace.] Yes. 

Kane. 

[Replacing the photograph and approaching her.] 
Shall I bore you by uffering a little further counsel? 

Iris. 

You are very good. 

Kane. 

[Sitting on the ottoman.] Iris, a woman in vour 
position can't be too cautious. 

Iris. 
Cautious ? 



IRIS 



13 



Kane. 

1 don't want to disturb you by recalling the terms of 
poor George's Will. At the same time 

Iris. 

[Turning to him.] My dear Archie, nothing that you 
can say upon the subject will disturb me. The threats 
of that Will seem to me to be weaved into the decora- 
tions of my walls. I construe them daily, almost 
hourly. [Closing her eyes as she recites.] "You for- 
feit all interest in your late husband's estate by re- 
marrying." I tread them into my carpets. [As before,] 
"In such an event the whole source of your income 
passes to others." The street-music makes a lilt of 
them. ''You have no separate estate; wed again and 
you cease to be of independent means." When a 
stranger is presented to me, I divine his thoughts in- 
stantly. "Why, you are the woman," he remarks to 
himself, "who loses her money by re-marrying." [Re- 
clining upon a pillow with a faint attempt at a laugh.] 
Ha ! For the thousandth time, why are such provisions 
made, can you tell me? 

Kane. 

They are designed primarily, I hope, to protect the 
widow 



To protect her ! 



Iris. 



Kane. 



From unscrupulous men, from fortune-hunters. In 
the present instance, for example, it is only fair to as- 
sume that your husband, knowing how greatly your 



14 IRIS 

happiness depends upon personal comfort, was actuated 
solely by a desire to safeguard you. 

Iris. 

Ah, this safeguarding of women ! Its effects may be 
humiliating, cruel. 

Kane. 

H'm ! Upon one of its effects, as concerning your- 
self, I should like to lay particular stress. May I be 
perfectly frank? 

Iris. 
Do. 

Kane. 

Allow me to remind you, then, that a lady circum- 
stanced as you are — still youthful, beautiful — 

Iris. 
[Touching his sleeve gently.] Sssh! 

Kane. 

Who is seen constantly in the company of a young 
man whom she could not dream of marrying, subjects 
herself inevitably to a considerable amount of ill-na- 
tured criticism. 

[She raises herself, looking at him, 

Kane. 
Criticism — conjecture — scandal. 

Iris. 

[After a brief pause.] I didn't think you meant that. 
Ah, thanks. 



IRIS 15 

[She leaves the settee, showing signs of dis- 
composure. 

Kane. 

[Standing before her.] I have completely spoilt your 
enjoyment of your little dinner-party. 

Iris. 

[Giving him her hand.] Dear friend. This is the 
advantage of employing a fashionable solicitor, one 
whose practice has its roots in the gay parterres of 
Society. I get the gossip of the boudoir at first hand. 

Kane. 
[Deprecatingly.] My object 

Iris. 

[Sweetly.] Ah, I am infinitely obliged. [Hesitat- 
ingly.] But— Archie 

Kane. 
Yes? 

Iris. 

[Her head averted.] You don't believe, evidently, 
that I am capable of throwing selfish considerations to 
the winds — marrying a poor man ? 

Kane. 
You! 

Iris. 

[Sitting upon the imndow-stool] I know; the last 
woman on earth, you would say, who would find cour- 
age for such an act. 



16 IRIS 

Kane. 
Are you joking? 

Iris. 
Ha! 

Kane. 

You marry a poor man; you with your utter dis- 
regard for the value of money ! Why, luxury to you 
is the sah of life, my dear Iris. Great heavens ! 

Iris. 

[Weakly.] I try to do a little good with my money, 
too, Archie. 

Kane. 

An indiscriminate sovereign to a beggar where a 
shilling would suffice; three times his fare to every 
cabman 

Iris. 
Oh, don't scold me ! 

Kane. 

Not I. I gave that up long since. You were sent 
into the world so constituted. 

Iris. 

[Smiling.] So afflicted. You are right, Archie — the 
step would be preposterous. 

Kane. 
[Raising his hands.] Ho ! 

Iris. 
[Wistfully.] Only I should like to think that I don't 



IRIS 



17 



shrink from it out of sheer worldHness and cowardice. 
I should Hke to think — tssh ! [Rising.] As you ob- 
serve, one is sent into the world shaped this way or 
that. [Producing Miss Pinsent's memorandum and 
referring to it.] Will you take Fanny Sylvain in to 
dinner ? 

Kane. 

Charmed. Who are your guests? 

Iris. 

Fanny and a little niece of hers whom she has taken 
under her wing, dear Croker, the Wynnings 



Delightful. 



Kane. 



Iris. 



[Walking away from him, to avoid the embarrass- 
ment of meeting his eye.] And Mr. Trenwith. [In- 
differently.] Oh, and Frederick Maldonado. 



Maldonado ! 
Yes. 



Kane. 



Iris. 



Kane. 
May I say Fm glad? The wound is healed, then? 

Iris. 

He writes begging me to include him again in my 
dinner-parties. Poor Maldo ! 

[She is standing beside the writing-table. 
From a drawer she takes out a ring-case and 
produces a tiny ring. 



i8 IRIS 

Kane. 
What's that? 

Iris. 

[Slipping the ring on to her finger and displaying it.\ 
A token. He gave it to me when he — at the time — 
telling me that, if ever I relented, I had only to return 
it to him without a word and, no matter what part of 
the globe it found him in, he would come to me on 
wings. 

Kane. 

The plumage is golden, in his case, Iris. 

Iris. 

Yes. [Closing her eyes for a moment.'] But I 
couldn't, Archie. [Removing the ring from her finger 
thoughtfully.] Yet I've been on the point of sending 
this to him more than once during the past month. 

Kane. 
You have? 

Iris. 

[Mechanically replacing the ring in its drawer.] As 
a way out of my perplexity. 

[The double-doors are thrown open and a ser- 
vant announces "Miss Sylvain and Miss 
Vyse." Iris advances to greet Fanny Syl- 
vain, who enters with Aurea. Fanny is 
a bright, attractive woman of thirty, Aurea 
a frank-looking girl still in her teens. 
Fanny and Iris kiss affectionately. 

Iris. 
Dear Fannv ! 



IRIS 



19 



Fanny. 
Dear Iris! [Presenting Aurea.] My niece, Aurea. 

Iris. 
[Advancing to Aurea.] Ah! 

Fanny. 
[Shaking hands with Kane.] Well, Archie ! 

Kane. 

[Talking to her apart.] How are you, Fanny? I've 
bad news for you. 

Fanny. 
[Clutching his arm.] No. 

Kane. 
I am to take you in to dinner. 

Fanny. 

[Faintly.] Brute ! I thought you were going to tell 
me that some of my investments have gone wrong. 



Kane. 



Ha, ha, ha ! 



Fanny. 

[In an eager whisper.] You are still doing well for 
me, Archie? 

[Miss Pinsent has reappeared in the further 
room; she noiv joins Fanny and Kane, 
shaking hands zvith the former. 



20 IRIS 



Iris. 



[With AuREA^ by the settee on the left.] And so this 
is your first dinner-party, Aurea? 

AUREA. 

Of a formal kind. 

Iris. 

[Smiling.] A few old friends gathered together for 
the last time this season. 

Aurea. 

Anyway, it is sweet of you to include me. 

Colonel and Mrs. Wynning are announced. 
Wynning is a soldierly man of fifty-five, 
his wife a pleasant-looking lady much his 
junior. 

Iris. 

[Shaking hands with the Wynnings.] How do you 
do? How do you do? 

Wynning. 
How are you? 

Iris. 

[To both.] Were you riding in the Park this morn- 
ing? 

Mrs. Wynning. 

Jack w^as; I have lumbago. 

Iris. 
That is very painful, is it not? 



IRIS 21 

Wynning. 

[With disgust.] When I was a boy only servants 
had it. By Jove, these are levelling days with a ven- 
geance ! [Shaking hands with Fanny, who has come 
to Mrs. Wynning.] How you, Miss Sylvain? [Seeing 
ivANE.] Hullo, Kane! [Shaking hands with Miss 
Pinsent.] How you? 

Mrs. Wynning. 

[Greeting Miss Pinsent.] How do you do? 

Mrs. Wynning, Miss Pinsent, and Kane, in 
one group, and Colonel Wynning and Iris, 
forming another, talk together on the right, 
while Fanny joins Aurea, who is now 
seated upon the settee on the left. 

Fanny. 
[To Aurea.] Well, are you disappointed? 

Aurea. 
She is adorable ! 

Fanny. 

[Sitting, facing Aurea, upon the window-stool — tri- 
umphantly.] Ah! 

Aurea. 
When did you and she first know each other, aunt? 

Fanny. 

When she was fourteen. We were at school to- 
gether. Even then there wasn't a girl who wouldn't 
have sold her little white soul for a caress from Iris. 
And the spell she casts never weakens. Here am I, 



22 IRIS 

a woman of thirty, and I believe she is more attractive 
to me than ever. 

AUREA. 

Of course she'll marry again ; she must. 
Fanny. 

She has been pestered to distraction ever since she 
discarded her mourning. 

AuREA. 

[Eagerly,] Tell me, are any of the men dining here 
this evening in love with her? 

Fanny. 

Some of them are, or were. [Glancing in the direc- 
tion of the Wynnings.] Colonel Wynning married 
that amiable creature over there in despair at having 
been refused three times. 

AuREA. 

[Aw^-stricken.] Does his wife know it? 
Fanny. 

Certainly; and feels honoured, as she ought. 

[A servant announces "Mr. Harrington,'* and 
Croker Harrington^ a dapper but exceed- 
ingly ugly little man of Hve-and-thirty, en- 
ters gaily. 

Iris. 
[Welcoming him.] So pleased to see you, Croker. 



1 



IRIS 



23 



Croker. 

[Kissing her hand gallantly.] Dear lady! [Dis- 
covering Fanny.] Ah! those alabaster shoulders can 
belong but to one person. 

Fanny. 

[Giving him her left hand, which he presses to his 
bosom.] I hate you; you didn't come to the bazaar 
yesterday. 



I did better; 
there. 



Croker. 
told the richest man I know to go 



Fanny. 
Freddy Maldonado? He never turned up. 

Croker. 

The traitor ! My fingers shall be at his throat di- 
rectly he appears. [To Iris.] He's to be here to-night? 



Yes. 



Iris. 

[He joins those on the right and is received 
joyously. Iris exchanges a few zijords with 
Fanny and Aurea, and then, producing 
Miss Pinsent's memorandum, goes to 
Croker. 



[To Fanny.] 
never dared — 



AUREA. 

I hope that plain little gentleman has 



24 IRIS 

Fanny. 

Mr. Harrington? Oh, yes, Croker Harrington has 
dared in his time. 

AUREA. 

No! 

Fanny. 

He laughs openly at his repeated failures. He laughs 
till he cries, he says, but I suspect the laughter has not 
always accompanied the tears. Dear Croker ! How- 
ever, he is now resigned to his position. 

AuREA. 

His position? 

Fanny. 

He declares he wonders why the Inland Revenue 
people don't fine Iris for omitting to take out a dog- 
license for him. 

Aurea. 

[Tenderly.] Poor little man! Still, he is so exceed- 
ingly ugly. 

Fanny. 

The most sensible men in the world, my dear. 

Aurea. 
The ugly ones? 

Fanny. 

V 

The vainest of them confide the truth to themselves 
at least once a day, while shaving. 

[Frederick Maldonado is announced. He en- 
ters — a tall, massive man of about forty, 
with brown hair and beard, handsome ac- 



IRIS 2S 

cording to the Jewish type, somewhat ebul- 
lient in manner, his figure already tending 
to corpulency. 

Iris. 

[Giving him her hand, with perfect dignity.] You 
have been too long a stranger, Maldo. Welcome ! 

Maldonado. 

[Softly.] Maldo — my old diminutive. Time is ef- 
faced by your use of it. [Shaking hands with Fanny.] 
Fanny 

Fanny. 
You didn't patronise the bazaar yesterday, Frederick. 

Maldonado. 

Sincere regrets. I found it impossible to get away 
from the City. [Greeting Croker and Kane.] My deai 
Croker ! Archie, my good friend ! 

Iris. 

[Presenting him to the Wynnings.] Mrs. Wynning, 
let me introduce Mr. Frederick Maldonado. Colonel 

Wynning 

[He bows to them and shakes hands with Miss 
Pinsent. 

AUREA. 

[To Fanny.] Who is that? 

Fanny. 
Frederick, one of the great Maldonado family. 



26 IRIS 

A UREA. 

Great? 

Fanny. 
Well, not great — big; big financiers. 

AUREA. 



Foreign r 



Fanny. 



I 



The grandfather was a Jew tradesman in Madrid 
who broke and went out to South America. He made 
a fortune in tobacco in Havannah and afterwards mar- 
ried an Englishwoman. Since then our public schools 
have been favoured with the education of the male 
Maldonados. They're reckoned among the three lead- 
ing groups of financiers in Europe. 

AuREA. 
What is a financier, exactly? 

Fanny. 
A financier? Oh, a pawnbroker with imagination. 

AuREA. 

Aunt! And is he in love with ? 

Fanny. 

[To Kane, who at this moment appears at her side.] 
Ah ! we are talking about her. How ethereal she 
looks this evening! My niece, Archie — [to Aurea] 
Mr. Kane. 

[Kane remains with therd, talking. A servant 
announces, "Mv. Laurence Trenwith," and 



IRIS 27 

Laurence^ a handsome, stalwart, but still 
boyish young man, enters. Iris advances 
to meet him; her lips form the words of a 
welcome; they shake hands silently. 

Iris. 

[In a low, level voice.] You know many who are 
here, I think. [Moving away to the right, he follow- 
ing,] You have met Mrs. Wynning? No? [Present- 
ing Laurence.] Mr. Trenwith. Colonel Wynning. 
Mr. Harrington I am sure you know. Mr. Frederick 
Maldonado. 

Laurence. 

[Shaking hands with Miss Pinsent after bowing to 
the others.] How do you do? 

Fanny. 

[Who has risen — to Kane, in a whisper.] Archie, 
thank goodness she starts for Switzerland on Saturday ! 

Kane. 
[To Fanny, with a nod.] H'm. [A servant enters. 

Servant. 

Dinner is served. 

[The servant retires. Iris brings Laurence 
over to the left. 

Kane. 
[Shaking hands with him.] How do you do? 



28 IRIS 

Fanny. 

[Shaking hands with him.] How are you, Mr. Tren- 
with? [Fanny and Kane move away. 

Iris. 

[Presenting Laurence to Aurea.] Mr. Trenwith — 
Miss Vyse. [To Laurence.] Will you take Miss 
Vyse ? 

Laurence. 
With great pleasure. 

Iris. 

[In the centre of the room.] Croker, please play 
host and go first with Mrs. Wynning. 

[Croker gives his arm to Mrs. Wynning and 
they pass out. Colonel Wynning, after a 
polite offer of precedence to Kane and 
Fanny, follows with Miss Pinsent. 
Fanny and Kane go next, then Laurence 
and Aurea. To Maldonado's surprise, Iris 
stands immovable, looking into space. 

Maldonado. 

[Proffering his arm.] I am to have the honour ? 

[Suddenly, with a gleam of resolution in her 
eyes, she moves to the writing-table and 
again produces Maldon ado's ring. She of- 
fers it to him. 

Maldonado. 
[Receiving it incredulously.] My ring! 



IRIS 29 

Iris. 



The token, Maldo. 



Maldonado. 
Iris— ^ — ? [Intensely.] Iris! 

Iris. 

Hush ! [Passing him, then turning and placing her 
arm in his quite collectedly.] Have you been abroad 
lately ? I read of your being in Vienna in the 

spring 

[The curtain falls as they go out. It rises 
again almost instantly, showing the win- 
dow-blinds lowered and the rooms bril- 
liantly lighted. In the conservatory little 
lamps glitter among the palms and flowers. 
Iris and Mrs. Wynning occupy the settee 
in the centre; Fanny is in the chair on 
their right. Miss Pin sent is at the piano, 
playing the final bars of a nocturne of Cho- . 
pin, while Aurea sits near her turning 
over some music. The men enter — Colonel 
Wynning and Kane appearing first; Mal- 
donado^ Croker, and Laurence following. 
Iris rises and motions Kane to zvithdraw 
with her from the rest. Maldonado places 
himself beside Mrs. Wynning; Croker, 
standing facing them, takes part in their 
talk. Wynning and Fanny seat themselves 
on the settee under the palm on the right; 
Laurence joins Aurea arid Miss Pinsent 
at the piano. 



30 IRIS 



Iris. 

[Standing by the settee on the left, speaking in a low 
voice.] Archie 

Kane. 
Yes? 

Iris. 

You need be under no apprehension concerning me. 
I have done it. 

Kane. 
You have done what? 

Iris. 

Ended my perplexity. I have told Frederick Mal- 
donado I will marry him. 

Kane. 
Iris! 

Iris. 

Not a word, if you please, to anybody. I will not 
have it announced till after I have left town. 

Kane. 

Accept my congratulations. What made you form 
this resolution so suddenly, may I ask? 

Iris. 

I felt the sensation of stumbling, that I must snatch 
at something tangible. [Closing her eyes.] I am glad. 

Kane. 
I hope it is for your happiness. 



IRIS 31 

Iris. 

It is for my safety. There is now no risk of further 
scandal should Mr. Trenwith decide to remain in Eng- 
land. 

Kane. 

[Approvingly.] Good ! 

Iris. 

On the other hand, if he migrates to British Colum- 
bia, I stifle the temptation to play housewife among 
the pots and pans of his poor little log-hut. I am se- 
cure either way. 

Kane. 
Whew! Then you did entertain the idea seriously? 

Iris. 

[Simply.] I have been miserably perplexed. 

Miss Pinsent plays some snatches of music 
lightly. Croker approaches Iris and Kane. 

Croker. 

My dear Iris, what a delightful dinner you have 
given us ! 

Kane. 
Your dinners are always charming. 

Iris. 

[Sitting upon the settee.] My guests are always 
charming. 

[Kane moves away, joining Wynning and 
Fanny. Wynning yields his place to Kane 



32 IRIS 

and ultimately sits with Aurea under the 
palm in the further room. 

Croker. 

[Sitting facing Iris, his tone changing slightly.] Di- 
vinity, what's the matter with you to-night? 

Iris. 
The matter? 

Croker. 
Something disturbs you, distresses you. 

Iris. 
[Playfully.] How do I show it, Faithful One? 
Croker. 

[In the same spirit.] In your lustrous and never-to- 
be-forgotten ej^es. 

Iris. 

[Beating a pHIoik: and nestling in it.] Ha! I am 
simply. dog-weary. It has been a hard season for your 
poor Divinity. Oh, how I am longing for my month 
among the mountains and my sun-bath at Cadenabbia ! 

Croker. 

You drop down to the lakes, then, after St. Moritz? 

Iris. 

Yes, I am renting the Villa Prigno and its staff of 
servants from its owner, Mrs. Van Reisler, for a few 
weeks. 



IRIS J3 

Croker. 
When are you off? 

Iris. 
On Saturday. This is farewell. 

Croker, 

I picture the caravan; the fair Pinsent, your courier, 
your maid, your fruit, your flowers, your birds — no, not 
those troublesome birds. 

Iris. 

You know I never move anywhere without my birds. 
Are you coming to Switzerland this year? 

Croker. 

[Almost iurlily, looking away.] No. Perhaps. 
[Softening.] Of course I am. I am one of your human 
birds. Divinity. 

Iris. 

One of my great, kind human birds, that fly after me 
wheresoever I go. 

Croker. 
[Bitterly.] That fly, yes — and yet are caged. 

Iris. 
[Reprovingly.] Hush! Croker! 

Croker. 
I beg your pardon. It slipped out. 



34 IRIS 

Iris. 
Ah, I'll not be vexed with you. 

Croker. 

[Remorsefully.] I am continually breaking my 
promise. Some day you'll tire of me and send me about 
my business. 

Iris. 

Never. [Bending toivards him.] Faithful One, do 
you think I could afford to lose your true friendship, 

your ceaseless solicitude, your ? 

[She sees Laurence — zvho is now standing at 
the writing-table, waiting for an oppor- 
tunity of approaching her — falters and 
breaks off. 

Iris. 

[In an altered tone.] Croker, ask Kate to play my 
favourite mazurka — will you ? 

Croker. 

[Rising.] Certainly. 

[He delivers his message to Miss Pinsent, re- 
maining by her side while she plays. With ■ 
a look, Iris draws Laurence to her. As 
he advances she changes her place from the 
settee to the zmndow-stool. 

Laurence. 

[Standing beside her, speaking in a low voice.] This 
is the first opportunity I have had of a word with you. 



Yes. 



IRIS 

Iris. 
Laurence. 



35 



I have something to tell you. May I ? 

[She motions him to the settee. 

Laurence. 
[Sitting.] I have accepted my uncle's proposal. 

Iris. 
[Unemotionally.] You have? 

Laurence. 

There is nothing for it but that, nothing that I can 
hit upon. I go down to Rapley, to talk matters over 
with the old man, to-morrow. 



Oh, yes. 



Iris. 



Laurence. 



So this may be the last time we shall ever meet ; un- 
less you — oh, I feel how presumptuous I am to allude 
to it again ! 



Unless I- 



Iris. 



Laurence. 



Could, after all, bring yourself to share my rough lot 
with me. A mad, selfish idea, I know. Feelings like 
mine make one mad. 

Iris. 
Please ! A mad idea, indeed. 



Z6 IRIS 

Laurence. 
[With a break in his voice.] It*s good-bye, then. 

Iris. 
When will you be back from Rapley? 

Laurence. 

I sha'n't come back ; my uncle insists upon my spend- 
ing my remaining few hours with him. Then I shall 
go straight to Liverpool. 

Iris. 

You sail ? 

Laurence. 

On the thirtieth — the day you start for Switzerland, 
I hear? [She assents dumbly. 

Laurence. 

[Appealingly.] Let me stay behind for a few mo- 
ments to-night after your friends have left. 

Iris. 

I am sorry; Mr. Maldonado has already made a 
similar request. 

Laurence. 

Oh, but you can excuse yourself to him? 

Iris. 
I — I fear not. 

Laurence. 

Forgive me. I thought, this being the end of our 
— [rising] — never mind. 

[She rises with him. They face one another. 



IRIS 



'37 



Laurence. 

I shall write to you from Rapley, if I may ; and send 
you a wire from Liverpool. And when I get to Chil- 
coten — River Ranche, Chilcoten, British Columbia — I'll 
— would once a month be too often? Oh., how happy 
I've been ! 

[She gives a quick glance round, conscious of a 
general movement, and sees that her guests 
are preparing to depart. Wynning has 
joined Mrs. Wynning. 



Iris. 

[Hastily hut composedly, in a low voice. \ 
rence 



Lau- 



Laurence. 



Yes. 



Iris. 

Return in about an hour's time. Be outside the house, 

on the other side of the way. Watch the door 

[The Wynnings come to her. 

Iris. 

[Turning to Mrs. Wynning.] Must you ? 

Mrs. Wynning. 
We have to go on. 

Wynning. 

[Cheerfully.^ Three o'clock in the morning again 
for us. This week sees the last of it, thank God. 



38 • IRIS 

Mrs. Wynning. 

When one has lumbago one may as well keep upright 
as not. 

Iris. 
I ought to follow you, but I am too indolent to-night. 

Mrs. Wynning. 
[Kissing her.] It has been so pleasant. 

Wynning. 

[Shaking hands.] Charming. 

[They shake hands with the rest — who are en- 
gaged in bidding each other good night — 
and withdraw^ Miss Pinsent accompany- 
ing them. 

Iris. ' 

[To Fanny, who comes to her with Aurea.] You 
too, Fanny? 

Fanny. 

Only to the Chadwicks, for the sake of this girl, and 
then to by-by. [Kissing her on both cheeks.] Your 
dinner-table looked superb. 

Aurea. 
Do let me thank you, dear Mrs. Bellamy. 

Iris. 
[To Aurea.] Well ? 



IRIS 39 

AUREA. 

[In answer.] Oh, I should like to dine out every 
night of my life ! 

Iris. 
Ha! 

AuREA. 

If I could always watch your face through the flow- 
ers. 

[Iris kisses her and zvalks with them to the 
door. 

Fanny. 
Will you be at home at tea-time to-morrow? 

Iris. 

To you, Fanny. An revoir! 

[They depart as Croker approaches her. 

Iris. 

Are you for gaieties, Croker? 

Croker. 

Not I. [Kissing her hand.] The last act of **Messa- 
line" and a glance at the telegrams at the club will see 
me through. [In the doorzvay.] I shall be on the plat- 
form at Victoria. 

Iris. 
[Gratefully.] No, no; you mustn't trouble. 

Croker. 

[With a quick look into her face.] Trouble! good 
heavens! [lie disappears. 



40 IRIS 

Laurence. 

[Formally, as he shakes hands with her.] Thank you 
for a most delightful evening. 

Iris. 

So nice of you to come. 

Laurence. 
Good-night. 

Iris. 
Good-night. [He withdraws. 

Kane. 

[Shaking hands with her.] Shall we meet again be- 
fore you run away? 

Iris. 
Hardly. 

Kane. 

Well — a pleasant holiday ! 

Iris. 
And to you, Archie. 

Kane. 

[Pausing in the doorway, dropping his voice.] Once 
more, congratulations. 

Iris. 

Thanks. 

[He goes. She closes the doors and turns, to 
find herself in Maldon ado's arms. 

Iris. 

Ah, no ! 



IRIS 41 



At last! 


Maldonado. 


Oh! 


Iris. 


Sweetest ! 


Maldonado. 



Iris. 

Maldo! [Freeing herself with a gesture of repug- 
nance.] Maldo! 

[She brushes past him, and stands, greatly ruf- 
Hed, by the chair beside the writing-table. 
He regards her silently for a moment, puz- 
sled, 

Maldonado. 

[After the silence.] Oh, pardon me, my dear. The 

stored-up feelings of — a life-time, it seems ! It 

would be an exceedingly poor compliment to you were 
I less ardent. 

[She takes a bottle of salts from the writing- 
table and drops into the chair. 

Iris. 
I^ am tired, Maldo. 

Maldonado. 

[Brightening.] Ah, naturally; and I most incon- 
siderate. [Coming to the back of her chair.] I was 
rough — savage. A woman should always find repose 
on the breast of her lover. [Bending over her.] Let 
me prove to you how gentle I can be. 



42 IRIS 

Iris. 

Er — it is late, Maldo. 

Maldonado. 

[Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.] Barely 
eleven. [Turning to her.] Late! [Twisting his beard, 
thoughtfully.] You who never leave the opera till the 

final bar is played ! [Placing himself between her 

chair and the writing-table.] But I won't plague you 
further. [Sitting upon the edge of the table and inclin- 
ing his body towards her.] I only ask you to grant md 
one favour before you dismiss me to-night. 

Iris. 
Favour? 

Maldonado. 

Bestow upon me the title I have coveted so long. It 
is comprised in a single word. The faintest movement 
of those beautiful, still lips will suffice. You have but 
to whisper it to send me through the streets in air. 
Whisper ! ^ 

Iris. 
What? 

Maldonado. 

I am your beloved, am I not? Simply call me — Be- 
loved. 

Iris. 
We — we are not boy and girl, Maldo. 

Maldonado. 
Boy! I! no. [His eyes glowering.] A boy is not 



IRIS ' 43 

scorched-up, body and soul, by such a passion as you 
inspire me with. [She rises, turning from him. 



Maldonado. 

[Also rising, apologetically.] Ah, I scare you again ! 
You'll think me a hot-blooded tyrant. Don't fear; it 
is merely for the moment — the suddenness of my de- 
light ! Besides, you must make some small allow- 
ance for me ; we Maldonados are not yet wholly Eng- 
lish in our ways. You shall complete my education. 
We'll begin the course of instruction at once — begin 
by my promptly leaving you to your slumbers. [Tak- 
ing her hand and crumpling it fondly.] There! was 
there ever a more docile pupil? [In an outburst, im- 
pulsively pressing her hand to his lips and covering it 
with passionate kisses.] Ah, sweetest, be kind! melt! 
be warm ! be warm ! 



Iris. 

[Regaining possession of her hand.] Maldo — listen ! 
— Maldo — I — I am dreadfully sorry. What I tell you 
now I ought to have told you before returning your 
ring — your token. Maldo, I haven't the love for you 
a woman should have for the man who is to be her 
husband ; in that respect I am as you have always 
known me. But I will try to do my duty faithfully 
as mistress of your house, if that will satisfy you. I 
can promise no more, but I will do my duty — strictly 
and honourably, Maldo, strictly and honourably. 

[She moves atvay to the centre. He approaclics 
her slozvly. 



f4 



IRIS 



Maldonado. 



[At her side, his softness gone, speaking in a harsh, 

grating voice — swallowing an oath.] By- ! I should 

scarcely have thought it possible ! Yes, you positively 
deceived me — the astute Freddy Maldonado ! You've 
had me in a fool's paradise for nearly three hours. 

Iris. 
Deceived ? 

Maldonado. 

What an ass! I really imagined — for three mortal 
hours ! — that it was reserved for me to escape the pro- 
verbial fate of the millionaire where the love of woman 
is concerned ! 

Iris. 

[In protest.] Maldo ! 

Maldonado. 

[Sharply.] Why are you marrying me, then? Eh? 
Why are you prepared to marry me? 

Iris. 

You are very good, Maldo, very generous 

Maldonado. 
Ah, yes. 

Iris. 

Amiability itself 

Maldonad 
Quite so. 



IRIS 



45 



Iris. 

There is no man for whom I have sincerer respect; 
none, Maldo, none. 

Maldonado. 

Yes, yes ; all that. But I assume that the qualities 
you enumerate, admirable as they are, would hardly 
suffice to induce you to resign your own comfortable 
fortune were I not able to offer you a pretty solid ex- 
change. 

Iris. 

A woman, at such a crisis of her life, is swayed by 
many considerations, of course, Maldo. I am past the 
romantic age. You — you must think what you please; 
I cannot defend myself. 

[She sits upon the ottoman stonily. Leaving 
her, he zvalks about the room giving vent to 
short outbursts of ironical laughter. Ulti- 
mately he flings himself on to the settee on 
the left. 

Maldonado. 

Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho ! [His laughter dying out — bit- 
terly.^ Why, I suppose I ought to be profoundly grate- 
ful to you for your candour. The generality of women 
— ha, ha ! And better now than subsequent to mar- 
riage ! And, after all, you give yourself to me — give 
yourself in a fashion ; in the only fashion, it may be — 
I must console myself with that — in the only fashion in 
which your temperament allows you to yield yourself. 
Come, I can't lose you utterly, my dear. I'll be a phi- 
losopher and say Thanks. Thanks. [Returning to her 
side.\ Thanks. 



46 IRIS 

Iris. 

[In a murju'ir.] Thanks, Maldo. 

Maldoxado. 

[Grimly.] It's a bargain, then? You to be mine; 
as much mine as the Velasquez, the Raphael, hanging 
on my walls — mine, at least, to gaze at. mine to keep 
from others? [Her head droops in acquiescence, 

Maldoxado. 

[Gradually regaining some part of his good-humour.] 
And in return I promise that you shall be one of the 
most envied women in Europe. Oh, you shall attain 
your ambition ; you shall realise what wealth is, steep 
yourself in it to your heart's content ! 

Iris. 

[Rising, penitently.] Maldo! 

Maldoxado. 

Tsch, my dear ! I'll not reproach you. You are as 
God made women, and I — I am a millionaire. [After 
a pause, during which she plays with her handkerchief 
helplessly.] Well, I'll be gone. I fear I've gravely im- 
perilled my character for amiability. 

Iris. 

Oh ! [Giving him her hand.] Maldo 

Maldoxado. 
Eh? 



IRIS 47 

Iris. 

Perhaps — perhaps, as the years grow, it may become 
different between us. 

Maldonado. 
[Gripping her hand.] Iris! 

Iris. 
[Hastily.] Good-night. 

Maldonado. 

[Devouring her zvith his eyes.] My — my queen! 
[Drazving a deep breath.] I take my luck! 

[He releases her, and she goes to the hell be- 
side the fireplace and rings it. 

Maldonado. 
[At the door.] Will you be in to me in the morning? 

Iris. 
Yes. 

Maldonado. 

A thousand apologies for keeping you up. Good- 
night. 

Iris. 

Good-night, Maldo. 

[He departs. With a cry, half of pain, half of 
zveariness, she throws herself full-length 
upon the settee, and the curtain falls. After 
a brief pause it rises, disclosijig the rooms 
empty and in darkness, and the wiudozv- 
shutters and the shutters of the conserva- 



48 IRIS 



tory doors closed and barred. A key turns 
in its lock and one of the double-doors is 
opened gently, and Iris enters, followed by 
Laurence Trenwith. She motions him to 
pass her, and carefully closes the door. 
Then she switches on the light of a lamp 
standing upon the table on the left and, 
silently and impassively, scats herself upon 
the window-stool. Having deposited his 
hat and overcoat upon the settee 'on the 
right, he comes to her and, throzving him- 
self upon his knees before her, clasps her 
waist. She remains statue-like, her arms 
hanging by her side, looking down upon him 
with fixed eyes. 



Laurence. 



I can't help it ! Pity me ! Forgive me for being 
so daring. Remember, in the future I have to live 
upon my recollection of you — my recollection of how 
near I have been to you. To-night will stand out more 
distinctly than all the rest. You'll kiss me to-night, 
won't you — let me kiss you ! [She raises her hands to 
shield her face.] For once, just for once! Ah, you'll 
not allow me to go without a kiss at parting! Picture 
me in my solitary little log-hut, alone after the day's 
work — twelve miles away from the nearest house, from 
the nearest companionable creature — and think what 
the memory of a single kiss will always mean to me. 
Oh, don't hide your face! Are you angry? Remove 
your hands ! You are angry. I won't kiss you, then ; 
I won't try to kiss you. 



d 



IRIS 49 

[He attempts to uncover her face, whereupon 
she rises. He rises with her. There is si- 
lence between them for a while. 

Iris. 

[At length, controlling herself with an effort.] Lau- 
rence — my poor friend — I have promised to marry Mr. 
Maldonado. 

Laurence. 



[Almost inaudibly.] 


What ! 




Iris. 


Maldonado. 


Laurence. 


[Dully.] When 


Iris. 


When did I make 


the promise? 


Y— yes. 


Laurence. 
Iris. 



To-night — last night, that is. It is past twelve, isn't 
it? 

Laurence. 
Yes. 

[He turns from her unsteadily and sinks upon 
the ottoman, his head bowed, his shoulders 
shaking convulsively. 

Iris. 

[At his side.] Don't! don't! be strong! What dif- 
ference can it make? 



50 IRIS 

Laurence. 

To me? None, I suppose. Oh, yes, yes, all the dif- 
ference. 

Iris. 

How ? 

Laurence. 

There would have been the hope. There would have 
been the hope. 

Iris. 
Hope? 

Laurence. 

[Mastering his emotion, and looking up at her.] In 
spite of everything, I should have gone away with the 
hope that, some day, if I prosper, you would bid me 
come home to fetch you. And now — Mr. Maldonado. 
[Rising.] I beg your pardon; I ought to offer you 
my 

Iris. 
Thank you. 

Laurence. 

[Casing at her.] You and Mr. Maldonado! I should 
hardly have — [checking himself.] I trust you will be 

extremely 

[He fetches his hat and coat and returns to 
her. 

Laurence. 

[Brokenly.] Of course, under the altered circum- 
stances I won't think of troubling you with letters. 

Iris. 
Perhaps it would be as well that you should not write, 



IRIS 51 

for a time at least. I shall never cease to be interested 
in your career. [Losing some of her composure.] Oh, 
you might have disguised it more thoroughly ! 

Laurence. 

Disguised ? 

Iris. 
Your astonishment at my marrying Mr. Maldonado. 
[Feebly.] He has loved me — he asked me to be his 
wife two years ago. -And to-night I — quite suddenly — 
[in an altered tone.] Do you know that you and I were 
beginning to be the subject of tittle-tattle? 



Laurence. 

Iris. 
Laurence. 

Iris. 
Scandal. 

Laurence. 



You and I? 
Gossip. 
[Indignantly.] Oh! 



How dare people ? Good heavens ! to think I have 
brought this upon you ! What an infamous world ! 

[She shrugs her shoulders, smiling miserably. 

Laurence. 

Oh ! [Going to the mantelpiece and leaning upon 

it.] Oh, it's a dastardly world! 

Iris. 
I didn't mean to add to your unhappiness. I only 



52 IRIS 

wished you to understand exactly what has occurred. 

Laurence. 

[Turning to her.] But now I am going away. That 
in itself will stop evil tongues. There is no necessity 
now for you to take this step, if you are taking it merely 
to stop scandal. 

[She sits, silently, upon the ottoman. Throw- 
ing his hat and coat aside, he kneels upon 
the settee and, bending over it, speaks al- 
most into her ear. 

Laurence. 

Don't do this ! don't ! don't ! There's no reason for 
it. You sha'n't ! you shall not ! 

Iris. 
I must. 

Laurence. 
Not Maldonado! 

Iris. 
I must. 

Laurence. 

Not the man I met here to-night! 
Iris. 

[Seizing his hands and holding them, in entreaty,] 

Laurence ! 

Laurence. 
What? 

Iris. 

I am totally unfit for the life you ask me to lead! 



IRIS S3 

Laurence. 

The life ? 

Iris. 

Your wife — a farmer's wife — mistress of a log-hut — 
to work with my hands ! I dare not ! 

Laurence. 
Iris ! 

Iris. 

Out there, here, anywhere, I am not fit to be a poor 
man's wife. 

Laurence. 

Iris ! 

Iris. 

No, no, no ; I will not. 

Laurence. 
You are marrying him to save yourself from me ! 

Iris. 
[Faintly.] Oh! 

[Her head drops back until it rests upon the 
edge of the settee. With a cry he presses 
a prolonged kiss upon her lips. She rises, 
her eyes closed, her hand pressed tightly 
upon her mouth. 

Laurence. 

[Guiltily.] You'll despise me for that, always have 
a contempt for me. 

[After a pause, during which she is quite still, 
she moves to the writing-table and, seating 



54 ^^^^ 

herself before it, switeJies on the light of a 
lamp standing upon the table. 

Iris. 

[In a zi'hisper.] Laurence 

[She selects a sheet of notepaper and writes, he 
looking on zi'onderingly. When she has 
finished her note she blots it, and hands it 

to him, and proceeds to address an envelope. 

Iris. 
Read it. What have I said? 

Laurence. 

[Reading.] ''Forget what has passed between us to- 
night. It cannot be. I entreat 3'our forgiveness.'' 

[He returns the paper and she encloses it. 
Then she rises and, taking some Holders 
from a vase, moistens the envelope with the 
zvet stalks. Having fastened the letter by 
pressing it with her handkerchief, she gives 
it to Laurence. 

Iris. 

Let a messenger leave that at Mr. Maldonado's house 
in Mount Street before nine o'clock. 

Laurence. 

[Pocketing the letter.] Iris ! 

[She leaves him, with uncertain steps, and 
sinks upon the settee facing the fireplace. 
He follows her. 



IRIS 55 

Laurence. 

[Standing before her.] What do you mean? 

Iris. 

[Half rising.] 1 — I don't care! Follow me to 

Switzerland. Be near me 

[She stretches out her arms to him, and they 
sit together in an embrace. The curtain 
falls. 



END OF THE FIRST ACT. 



THE SECOND ACT 

The scene represents an apartment in a villa standing 
upon elevated ground running up from the west 
hank of the Lake of Como. The room, quadrantal 
in shape, is a spacious and lofty one. Its walls, 
decorated in slight relief ^ and its pilasters are of 
the purest white plaster. On the right-hand side 
of the room the wall is straight; in it, deeply re- 
cessed, are double-doors admitting to a hall; while 
the circular wall is broken by three vast windows, 
opening to the floor, at equal distances from each 
other. Outside these windows runs a balcony, the 
termination of which, at either end, is out of sight. 
Beyond the balcony are the tops of the trees — 
palms, magnolia in blossom, and others — growing 
in the garden below; and in the distance, under 
a deep blue sky, lie Bellagio and the juncture of 
the Lake of Como with that of Lecco. The furni- 
ture and hangings of the apartment — in contrast 
to the lightness of its decorations — are French, of 
the time of the first Empire. By the further win- 
dow, which is open, stand a settee and a writing- 
table and chair. Near the door is a circular table 
covered with a white tablecloth and partially laid 
for a meal, and on each side of this table is a chair 



IRIS 57 

so placed as to suggest that the meal in preparation 
is for two persons. A cabinet standing against the 
wall serves as a sideboard; on it are dishes of 
fruit, decanters of wine, table-glass, etc., etc. On 
the other side of the room, by the nearer window, 
half of which is open, is another table littered with 
newspapers, magazines and books. On the left- 
hand side of this table is a settee; on the right a 
chair; and upon the floor, between the chair and 
the settee, are a heap of cushions, some loose sheets 
of music, and a guitar. A piece of sculpture fills 
the right-hand corner of the room, and some busts 
on pedestals occupy the spaces between the win- 
dows. On the balcony there are two or three chairs 
in basketwork and, outside the middle zvindow, 
standing upon the broad ledge of the balustrade, 
several cages of birds. 

The light is that of a brilliantly fine morning in 
September. The sun enters through the nearer 
window; the rest of the balcony is in shade. 
[Tzi'o servants — a man and a zvoman — are en- 
gaged in laying the table near the doors for 
dejeuner. Fanny Sylvain and Aurea — 
dressed for walking — appear on the balcony, 
at the further window, coming from the right. 

Fanny. 
Good-morning. 

Man-servant and Woman-servant. 
Good-morning, miss. 

Fanny. 

[Entering.] Mrs. Bellamy is out, the gardener tells 

me, 



58 



IRIS 



Man-servant. 
Yes, miss. She has gone for a walk to Tremezzo. 

Fanny. 
I wonder I didn't meet her. Alone? 

Man-servant. 
No, miss ; with Mr. Trenwith. 

Fanny. 
[SJwrtly.] Oh. 

Man-servant. 

Mr. Trenwith is sketching at Tremezzo, miss. 

Fanny. 

[Displaying no further interest.] Really? 

Man-servant. 

Mrs. Bellamy breakfasts at twelve, miss, so she can't 
be long. 

Fanny. 

[Taking a magazine from the table on the left and 
seating herself on the settee by the nearer zvindow.] I'll 
wait a little while. [To Aurea, zvho has followed her 
into the room.] We'll wait, Aurea. 

Aurea. 

[Sitting on the settee by the further win doze] I 
could gaze at this prospect for ever, aunt. 

[The zvoman-servant zuithdraws at the door. 



IRIS 59 

Man-servant. 
[To Fanny.] Mr. 'Arrington is also waiting for 
Mrs. Bellamy, miss. I b'lieve you're acquainted with 
Mr. 'Arrington ? 

Fanny. 
Mr. Croker Harrington ! 

Man-servant. 

He came down last night from Promontogno. He's 
staying at Menaggio. 

Fanny. 
[Rising.] Where is he now? 

Man-servant. 
He's strolling about the garden, I fancy. 

Fanny. 
[Gladly.] Mr. Harrington has arrived, Aurea. 

Aurea. 
Has he, aunt? 

Fanny. 

[Going out at the nearer window and looking down 
from the balcony into the garden.] Isn't that he, by 
the fountain? [Moving to the further end of the bal- 
cony as she calls.] Croker! Cro — ker ! [JVaznng her 
sunshade.] Croker! [Re-entering the room.] How 
jolly, Aurea — dear Croker! 

Aurea. 
[Who is nozv standing by the table on the left — in a 



6o IRIS 

lozc z'oice.] Do you think all this pleases Mrs. Bel- 
lamy, aunt? 

Fanny. 

All this ? 

AUREA. 

Her friends chasing her, as it must seem, from place 
to place while ske is on her holiday. 

Fanny. 

[Somewhat disconcerted.] Why, it delights her, nat- 
urally. 

AuREA. 

It wouldn't me [azi'kzvardly] if I wanted 

Fanny. 

Wanted — what ? 

AuREA. 

Rest — and seclusion. 

[The zi'oman-serz'ant reappears, showing in 
Croker Harrington; then she and her fel- 
low-servant retire. 

Croker. 
[Kissing Fanny's hand.] My dearest Fanny! 

Fanny. 
Croker ! 

Croker. 

[Advancing to Aurea and shaking hands with her.] 
My dear Miss Vyse ! Ladies, your appearance on a 
day already sufficiently brilliant is overpowering. 
[Opening a white umbrella which he is carrying, and 



IRIS 6i 

holding it before him.] Remove your eyes from me, I 
entreat ; they rob me of the shade ! 

Fanny. 
What a fool you are, Croker ! So you've turned up? 

Croker. 
[Shutting his umbrella.] Last night. 

Fanny. 
You're at Menaggio? 

Croker. 

You divine my most secret movements — at the Vic- 
toria. And you ? 

Fanny. 

[With a jerk of the head towards the right.] We're 
at the Belle Vue, Aurea and I. 

Croker. 

Spick, span, comfortable Belle Vue! [To Fanny. 
his hand upon his heart.] But I daren't trust myself 
in too close a proximity 

Fanny. 

[Striking him gently with her sunshade.] Idiot! 
Have you paid your devotions to our Divinity yet? 

Croker. 

Not yet ; it was too late to do so last night. You 
see much of her, of course? 



(^2 IRIS 

Fanny. 

[Constrainedly.] I've been here only a week. Yes, 
I see her for a few minutes every day. 

Croker. 
A few minutes ? 

Fanny. 
She's a good deal occupied. 

Croker. 
Occupied? 

Fanny. 
[Dryly.] Sketching. 

Croker. 
Sketching ! 

Fanny. 

Aurea dear, the sun is off the front of the house. If 
you kept watch, you might run and meet Iris when she 
appears. 

Aurea. 

[Obediently.] Yes, aunt. 

[She goes out, at the nearer window, and talks 
to the birds. Fanny crosses over to the 
window and closes it, 

Fanny. 
[Turning to him.] What were we ? 

Croker. 

I was about to commit myself to the observation that 
Iris doesn't sketch. 



IRIS ' 63 

Fanny. 
No, but Mr. Trenwith does. 

Croker. 

[Unconcernedly.] Oh — ah — yes. Is Mr. Trenwith 
at Cadenabbia? 

Fanny. 
At the Britannia. 

Croker. 
[In the same spirit.] H'm, h'm? 

Fanny. 

A few hundred yards from this villa. 

[There is a pause between them, during which 
he employs himself in idly turning over the 
newspapers upon the table on the left. 

Fanny. 

[Seating herself on the settee by the further zvindow.] 
You were at St. Moritz during her stay there, you wrote 
and told me? 

Croker. 
For a fortnight. 

Fanny. 

Mr. Trenwith happened to be there also, didn't he? 

Croker. 
Yes. 

Fanny. 

[Impatiently.] He is regularly in her train. 



64 



IRIS 



Croker. 
Oh, hardly more than I, if it comes to that. 

Fanny. 

But he is young, charming, attractive in every 

way 

[He throws his head back and laughs almost 
too uproariously. 

Fanny. 

[Jumping up and coming to him penitently.] I beg 
your pardon, Croker. You misunderstood me. Oh, 
be qiiiet ! What I should have said was — one could 
wish that Miss Pinsent's successor were of another 
sex. Why was Miss Pinsent given her conge just 
before Iris left London? A pleasant, suitable per- 
son for a companion, surely ! Wouldn't you consider 
her so? 

Croker. 
/ might consider her so. 

Fanny. 

[Moving away.] Don't be coarse. I had a letter 

last week from Evelyn Littledale.. The Littledales 

were at St. Moritz, too. [He nods in assent.] Every- 
body was talking, Evelyn says. 

Croker. 
Talking! What else is there to do at St. Moritz? 

Fanny. 
And here 



IRIS 6s 

Croker. 
Here? 

Fanny. 

It is the same here. Everybody is talking. 

Croker. 

The glass is falling. Two days of rain and the 
place will be empty. 

Fanny. 

People will carry the topic away with them. [Lean- 
ing upon the back of the chair on the left of the break- 
fast-table.] Mary Chad wick writes me from Scotland; 
she mentions it. 

Croker. 

Pretty, bony, pimply Polly Chadwick! 

Fanny. 

It came to her from London. It has been brought 
to London already. 

Croker. 

The only form of luggage that escapes a charge for 
excess. 

Fanny. 

You are too sententious ! [At the breakfast-table, 
suddenly.] Are you breakfasting with Iris? 

Croker. 
[Joining her.] She doesn't know I've arrived. 

Fanny. 
Because I notice the table is laid for two. [On his 



66 IRIS 

left,] For mercy's sake, man, do show some signs of 
animation ! You can be sprightly enough at times. 

Croker. 

My dear Fanny, to what tune would you have me 
skip? 

Fanny. 

Why, astonishment — astonishment, at least, at ouk 
Divinity*s extraordinary behavior. 

Croker. 
Is it extraordinary? 

Fanny. 

Can you find a milder phrase for it? I tell you, 
Croker, I can't sleep for worrying about Iris. When 
we were in town, and young Trenwith was fluttering 
round her, I was in a blue funk lest she should be 
tempted to marry him and plunge herself into poverty. 
But now — well, I sometimes catch myself wishing 
that she would announce her engagement to him. 
[Leaving Croker and peering at Aurea through the 
centre window.] My niece, too! I am certain she is 
beginning to wonder. [Seating herself by the table on 
the left.] What on earth are we to think of it all? 

Croker. 

Think? That here are two well-intentioned young 
people with a natural fondness for each other's society. 
What else, pray, is there to think? 

Fanny. 
Oh, thanks, I appreciate the snub. 



IRIS 67' 



Croker. 



Best natured of your sex, I intend no snub. Bring 
me the man who presumes to snub you and I will 
slay him in your presence. No, no, I would only 
suggest to those who are disturbing you by their 
gossip that it is simply abominable that close com- 
panionships can*t exist between reputable men and 
women without suspicion of wickedness. Faugh ! 
why must this dear friend of ours be fastened upon? 
Cannot she be spared — a refined, delicate creature 
whose natural pride and dignity queens might envy? 
Oh, a little spoilt, if you will; petted by those who 
have the privilege of intimacy with her; luxurious in 
her habits, a born spendthrift, but never more prodigal 
— bless her ! — than in her charities ! I can remember 
little else to urge against her — -except the difficulties 
of her position, none of her own making. She mustn't 
re-marry — that is, she may not marry whom she 
pleases. In heaven's name, is she to be gagged and 
manacled for that reason ? She is still young — yes ; 
yet from the fact of her already having been a wife — 
brief as was the duration of that experience — she 
can't be altogether an unwise woman. Is she not to 
be trusted to give wholesome counsel to a young man 
without the interruption of a chaperon ; is she never 
to play at mothering — like a sage child with a doll — 
a male companion belonging to her own generation? 
And this young fellow, this Trenwith? Is he neces- 
sarily an abandoned wretch? I like him. I wish I 
were in his shoes — better still, in his skin ! I say is 
youth necessarily designing, necessarily vicious? I'll 
back it against age; and age isn't all bad, I console 
myself with believing, as I pull out a grey hair or two 
every morning. [Pacing the room.] Phuh ! it nauseates 



68 



IRIS 



me even to argue the matter. [Sitting, on the left of the 
breakfast-table.] Have you ventured to speak to Iris 
on the subject? 

Fanny. 
Not yet. I keep putting it off from day to day. 

Croker. 
Why — feeling as strongly as you do? 

Fanny. 

I suppose I shrink from seeing a pair of placid, grey 
eyes turn on me with a look of surprise and reproach. 

Croker. 
[Triumphantly,] Ha! 

Fanny. 

Oh, of course I know they will look so, and leave 
me to splutter out of my difficulty like a puppy who 
has been dropped into a pond. Yes, yes, of course, 
Croker, in my heart I know she is only foolish — 
foolish — foolish. 

Croker. 

I won't admit even that; only that other people 
are malicious — malicious — malicious. 

Fanny. 

[Going to him and laying a hand on his shoulder.] 
What a friend you are! 



IRIS 69 

Croker. 

Is there any other role for an ugly little devil to play 
in this world? 

Fanny. 

The friendship of a single man is worth that of 
a dozen women. [Uneasily.] I believe that if our 
Divinity really behaved as she has been doing in my 
nightmares 

Croker. 
[Looking up at her.] Your nightmares? 

Fanny. 

[Avoiding his gase.] I believe you'd stick to her 
even then. 

Croker. 
[Under his breath.] Good God, yes! 

Fanny. 
Through any disgrace? 

Croker. 

Till death. My dear Fanny, please don't imagine 
such impossible contingencies. [Abruptly.] And you? 

Fanny. 

Ah, there's the difference between men and women. 
I should drop quietly away. 

Croker. 
Would you? 



70 IRIS 

Fanny. 

Goodness knows I'm not strait-laced, Croker ; but 
one daren't let one's laces get too slack. [Sadly.] 
Yes, I should simply have to drop away quietly. 
What an end ! 

Croker. 
[Rising.] Don't let us talk in this fashion. 

Fanny. 

[Rousing herself.] No, no. [Recovering her sfyirits.] 
As a matter of fact, your homily has comforted me 
tremendously — though you did snarl at me like a 
griffin. 

Croker. 
[Laughing.] Ha, ha, ha! 

Fanny. 

But you don't object to my whispering just one 
word of w^arning into that little pink ear of hers, when 
an opportunity occurs, eh? 

Croker. 
On the contrary 

AUREA. 

[Looking in at the further window.] She is coming, 
aunt. 

[AuREA disappears quickly. One of the caged 
birds bursts into song. 

Fanny. 
Hark! 



IRIS 71 

Croker. 
[On the left.] Eh? 

Fanny. 

Listen to that silly bird. It's the same with me — 
always has been ; my heart thumps — thumps — 
thumps — whenever she approaches. And with you ? 

Croker. 
[Nodding,] Yes. What is she looking like? 

Fanny. 

Oh, fresher for the soft air of this place — more 
colour. 

Croker. 
Her paleness is wonderfully becoming, though. 

Fanny. 

[Smiling.] When you met her at St. Moritz, did 
you notice she had lost some of those little lines we 
saw last season? 

Croker. 

They were going. [Regretfully.] I missed them. 
They were nothing but dimples. 

Fanny. 

And her smile — [Breaking off suddenly and coming 

to him.] Croker 

Croker. 
Yes? 

Fanny. 

[Her troubled manner returning.] I'll tell you what 



72 IRIS 

she looks like — [irritably] what a noise that bird 
makes ! I'll tell you ; I should describe her as looking 
exactly like — [with an uncomfortable laugh] it's the 
effect of this enchanted lake, I suppose 

Croker. 
Exactly like ? 

Fanny. 

[Again avoiding his eye.] A bride. 

[Iris enters at the door, her arm through 
Aurea's. She is dressed in white, and is 
happier-looking and more girlish than when 
last seen. Laurence follows, carrying his 
sketch-book. 

Iris. 

[Uttering a cry of pleasure upon seeing Croker.] 
Ah ! [Kissing Fanny.] Dear Fanny ! [Advancing to 
Croker zmth extended hands,] Aurea promised me a 
surprise, but not this ! 

Croker. 

[Kissing her hands.] What are you — the spirit of 
the lake? 

Iris. 

No ; something warmer to her friends. The lake 
is deep and cold, and occasionally cruel. 

[Fanny has greeted Laurence rather distantly; 
he now comes to Croker. 

Croker. 

[Shaking hands with him cordially.] How are you, 
Mr. Trenwith? 



IRIS n 

Laurence. 
[Brightly.] When did you come down? 

Croker. 
Yesterday. 

Iris. 

[To Croker.] Mr. Trenwith is staying at the 
Britannia. He has been kind enough to let me watch 
tiim sketching at Tremezzo this morning. [Removing 
her hat and veil with Fanny's assistance,] And you? 

Croker. 
Fm at Menaggio — the Victoria. 

Iris. 

A mile away from me. How churlish ! [Laying a 
hand on Croker and Fanny.] Still, this is reunion. 
You'll all breakfast with me, won't you? Mr. 
Trenwith has already promised. Yes? 

Fanny. 
Certainly, dear. 

Croker. 

[Depositing his hat and umbrella upon the settee on 
the left,] Glorious! A hundred affiiinatives. 

AUREA. 

[To Iris.] Oh, I'm disgusted! I am engaged to 
lunch with the Battersbys and to go with them this 
afternoon, on the steamboat, to the Villa d'Este. 



74 IRIS 

Fanny. 

Yes, and I too ! But they will readily release an 
old woman. 

AUREA. 

[Referring to her wateh.] I ought to be at the hotel 
now. 

Fanny. 
I'll take Aurea back, make my excuses, and return. 

Croker. 

[Taking up his hat and timbrella.] Let me be your 
escort. 

Fanny. 
No, no. 

Croker. 

I insist. [To Iris.] At what time do you break- 
fast? 

Iris. 

It shall be delayed till half-past twelve. [To Aurea.] 
You will come to see me again — to-morrow perhaps? 

Aurea. 

[Assenting.] I shall hate the steamboat, and the 
Villa d'Este, and the Battersbys — and they're such 
.nice people. 

Fanny. 

[Going out zi'ith Aurea.] Half-past twelve, then! 

Croker. 
[Follounng them.] With the fiercest of appetites. 



IRIS 75 

Fanny and Croker. 
Au revoir! [They depart. 

Iris. 

[Pulling the hell-rope which hangs by the door.} Au 
revoir! [The Man-servant appears in the doorway. 

Iris. 

[To the servant.'} Tell Frangols there will be two 
more persons for dejeuner, and to delay it half-an- 
hour. 

Man-servant. 
Yes, ma'am. 

[He withdraws, closing the doors. Iris and 
Laurence approach each other. They con- 
verse in low, tender tones. 

FAt«TY. ^ru^. 

[To Laurence.] We lose our tete-a-tete. But they 
are my dearest friends. 

Laurence 
I understand. 

Iris. 

Others may gossip about me, shut their eyes at me 
eventually if they choose. But these two — I don't 
believe the comments occasioned by our being so con- 
stantly together will ever deprive me of their fidelity, 
do you? 

Laurence. 

[Doubtfully.] I sometimes fear that Miss Syl- 
vain 



1(^ 



IRIS 



Iris. 

[With a gesture of abandonment.^ Ah! [Drawing 
still closer to him.] Anyhow I have what is most 
precious. [Indicating the sketch-book which he retains 
in his hand.] Show me your morning's work. 

Laurence. 

[Exhibiting a page deprecatingly.] There's Httle to 
show. 

Iris. 

For shame ! And I was reading intently nearly 
the whole of the time in order not to distract you. 

Laurence. 

True — but my eyes were wandering towards your 
face nearly the whole of the time. 



Iris. 
Were they? 



[In his ear.] I know 



How foolish ! 
they were. 

[With a childlike laugh of pleasure she Uings 
her hat away from her, in the direction of 
the settee by the further window, and sinks 
on to the cushions on the left. The hat falls 
upon the floor; he picks it up. 

Iris. 

[Carelessly.] Oh, my pretty hat! [Seeing that he is 
concerned over its trimmings.] It's of no conse- 
quence. 

Laurence. 

[Placing the hat and his sketch-book upon the writ- 



IRIS 77 

ing-table.] It is one of the hats that came from Paris 
yesterday. 

Iris. 

[Taking the guitar upon her lap.] Is it? So it is. 

[She thumbs the guitar. He comes to her 
slowly, contemplating her with a troubled 
look. 

Laurence. 

Dearest 

Iris. 

Eh ? Where's your mandoline ? 

Laurence. 
I left it in the garden last night, I'm afraid. 

Iris. 
Careless person ! Send for it. 

Laurence. 

[Sitting in the chair which is near her.] Dearest, 
tell me — have you always been as I have known 
you ? 

Iris. 

Always — as you have known me—? 

Laurence. 
Profuse — extravagant — ? 

Iris. 

I? Oh, yes, always; from childhood, I've been 
told. Why? You have asked me something to that 
effect before, Laurie. 



78 IRIS 

Laurence. 
Forgive me. 

Iris. 

Yes, it's in my blood, the very core of my nature, I 
believe. 

Laurence. 

[Thoughtfully.] To be lavish — reckless 

Iris. 
Reckless? You said extravagant. 

Laurence. 
Is there much difference? 

Iris. 

Between recklessness and mere personal extrava- 
gance — indulgence ? Oh, yes, indeed, indeed. There 
is courage in recklessness — blind courage, but courage ; 
an absence of calculation, no thought of self whatever. 
And recklessness implies energy, determination, of a 

kind. But I — your poor Iris ! Do fetch your 

mandoHne. ^ 

Laurence. 

No, no; talk about yourself. 

Iris. 

Your poor, weak, sordid Iris, who must lie in the 
sun in summer, before the fire in winter, who must 
wear the choicest lace, the richest furs ; whose eyes 
must never encounter any but the most beautiful 
objects — languid, slothful, nerveless, incapable almost 



IRIS 79 

of effort ! Do you remember the story of the poet 
Thomson, and the peaches ? He adored peaches, but 
was too greedy to await their appearance at table and 
too indolent to pluck them himself; so he used to 
stand propped-up against the wall upon which they 
grew and, with half-closed lids, bite into his beloved 
fruit as it hung from its tree. [Plaintively.] Ha, ha, 
ha ! No image could give you a better notion of my 
habits and disposition. 

Laurence. 
Dearest, you blacken yourself wilfully. 

Iris. 

Reckless ! reckless ! Why, were I a reckless 
woman, Laurie, we should now be man and wife, should 
we not? 

Laurence. 

[In low J earnest tones, bending over her.] Man and 
wife. 

Iris. 
[Wistfully, looking into space.] Man and wife. 

Laurence. 

Man and wife ! married ! no one in the world to look 
askance at us ! 

Iris. 

Yes, we should have hurried off to church and begged 
a clergyman to turn a rich woman into a pauper ; and 
you would have been saddled with a helpless doll 
stripped of her gewgaws and finery — if I had been 
Rimply reckless. 



8o IRIS 

Laurence. 

We should have been happy, dearest; we should 
have been happy. 

Iris. 
[Incredulously.] Even then? 

Laurence. 
[Eagerly.] Even then. 

Iris. 

[Catching a little of his eagerness.] What! happier, 
do you think, than we are merely as lovers? 

Laurence. 

I believe so ; in spite of your mistrust of yourself, 
I believe so. 

Iris. 

[Relapsing into languor, her Ungers straying over 
the strings of the guitar.] Oh, of course I know it 
would have been better for our souls could I have 
grappled with the problem honestly and courageously — 
married you and gone out to — what is the name of the 
place ? 

Laurence. 
River Ranche — Chilcoten 

Iris. 

That, or parted from you for ever. But, you see, I 
hadn't the recklessness on the one hand nor the power 
of self-denial on the other. And so I treat your love 
as the poet did the fruit — I steal it; greedily and 



IRIS 8l 

lazily I steal it. [Laying her guitar aside zvith a long- 
drawn sigh.] Ah — h — h! However, we're contented 
as we are, arn't we? [Closing her eyes.] I am; 1 am. 
[They remain silent for a few moments, he 

staring at the floor with knitted brows. 

Suddenly she puts her hair back from her 

forehead and rises. 

Iris. 

Phew ! it*s very oppressive this morning. 

[She passes him, walking away towards the 
right and there standing idly. 

Laurence. 
[After a pause, heavily.] Dearest 

Iris. 

Laurie ? 

Laurence. 

Naturally you wonder why I am continually 
catechising you about yourself. 

Iris. 

You enjoy diving down into the depths of my charac- 
ter — is that it? Cruel, when they are such shallow 
little depths! [Pitifully.] The process disturbs the 
surface of me — makes ripples, as it were. 

Laurence. 

[Rising and going to her.] Yes, my persistency must 
seem terribly ill-bred. [Hesitatingly.] But it's all part 
of my anxiety concerning the future. 



82 IRIS 



The future? 


Iris. 


Our future. 


Laurence. 




Iris. 


Why, what is on your mind? 




Laurence. 


[Gently.] Iris, 


things can't continue as they are. 




Iris. 



[With a note of alarm in her voice.] Eh? What 
has happened? 

Laurence. 

[Soothingly.] Nothing — nothing. Only — I hate to 
be obHged to talk to you in this strain — I have to deal 
with the old question once more. 

Iris. 
The old question? 

Laurence. 

A means of livelihood. 

Iris. 
[With wide-open eyes.] A means of livelihood! 

Laurence. 

You remember that when, six weeks ago, I wrote 
to my uncle, telling him I was hanging-up for a while 
the idea of leaving England, he sent me, generously 
enough, his good wishes and a cheque for five hundred 
pounds? 



IRIS 83 

Iris. 
Yes. 

Laurence. 

At the same time his letter conveyed a very decided 
intimation that I was neither to see him nor hear from 
him again. 

Iris. 

I read Archdeacon Standish's note. 

Laurence. 

It is evident I can look for nothing further in that 
direction. 

Iris. 
Quite. What does that matter? 

Laurence. 

[Avoiding her gase.] Therefore, those five hundred 
pounds — or, rather, what remains of them — represent 
all I have with which to 

Iris. 

To ? 

Laurence. 

To commence operations. 

Iris. 
Operations? 

Laurence. 
Work. 

Iris. 
Where? 



84 IRIS 

Laurence. 
Out there. 

Iris. 



[Almost inaudibly.] Laurie 



Laurence. 

Through my delay I have lost the chance of taking 
over Eardley's ranche at Chilcoten, even if I possessed 
the capital. But the other scheme remains. 

Iris. 
The other? 

Laurence. 

Joining Fred Bagot. He's five-and-twenty miles 
nearer the Soda Creek, you know, where there's a 
post-office and all sorts of civilisation. I could pay 
him the premium he asks — two hundred and fifty — 
and peg away with a view to a partnership. The 
second plan might prove as good in the end as the 
original one. 

Iris. 

[Breathlessly.] Laurie! 

Laurence. 
Dearest ! 

Iris. 
Laurie, why are you teasing me? 

Laurence. 
Teasing you? 

Iris. 
Reviving the notion of that terrible ranche! 



IRIS 85 

Laurence. 

Iris, it is the one career I am fitted for. I should 
succeed at it; I feel I should succeed at it. 

Iris. 

But there is no longer any necessity for it ! The 
project belongs to the past! [He attempts to speak; 
she interrupts him.] Oh, we have hitherto, avoided the 
subject of money matters, Laurence — it is such a dis- 
tasteful topic as between you and me. Dear, you 
shall never again have the smallest care about money ; 
I want you to regard your embarrassments as abso- 
lutely at an end. It is unkind of you to have kept 
your anxieties from me in this way. 

Laurence. 
Iris — Iris — you don't understand. 

Iris. 
What else—? 

Laurence. 

You don't understand that a man — some men, at 
least ; I among the number — can't accept money from 
a woman. 

Iris. 

IB lankly.] Why not? 

Laurence. 

Become dependent upon a woman! [JValking aivay 
and sitting upon the settee by the nearer zvindow.] 
Live upon a woman ! 



86 IRIS 



Iris. 



[Following him and standing at the back of the 

settee.] But — the circumstances ! We love each 

other. 

Laurence. 

[With clenched hands.] Does that make the situa- 
tion easier for me? Iris, the position would be in- 
tolerable. 

No, no. 



Iris. 



Laurence. 

Intolerable. Intolerable. 

[She leaves him and wanders azvay to the 
breakfast-table, zuhere she sits plucking at 
the leaves of some of the Hozvers which 
decorate the table. He rises, zvalks to the 
further zvindozv, looks out, and then joins 
her. 

Laurence. 

[Remorsefully.] I know Fm cruel, dearest. But 
it's of a piece with the rest of my behaviour; I've been 
cruel to you from the very beginning. 

Iris. 
Never till now. 

Laurence. 

Yes, I ought to have been strong; I ought to 
have constituted myself your protector. I ought to 
have said good-bye to you finally on the night of your 
dinner-party. 



IRIS 87 

Iris. 

I forgive you all that. That was my fault. But 
now ! 

Laurence. 

[Partly to himself.] One could have done it if one 
had chosen. I simply allowed the current to carry 
both of us away. 

Iris. 

Why should we try to escape from the current? 
We love each other ; we've been happy ; we are happy. 
Why aren't you satisfied to be ,one of my birds — oh, 
but my best, my most dearly prized? Just for a 

scruple ! 

Laurence. 

Scruple ! 

Iris. 

[Suddenly.] Laurence, directly we return to London 
I will see Archie Kane and insist upon his obtaining 
some suitable occupation for you in town. I will ! 
He and I have already talked over the matter. He 
mentioned a secretaryship as being possible. 

Laurence. 

I know — the sort of billet that provides a man 
with gloves and cab fares, and a flower for his coat ! 
[Entrcatingly.] Iris — Iris, I don't ask you any longer 
to share the difficulties I must meet with at the outset 
— a novice starting life on a ranche. But afterwards, 
when the struggle is over, when affairs settle down 
into their steady course ! 



88 IRIS 

Iris. 

Their steady course! [Rising.] That's it! Their 
steady course! [Shudderingly.] Oh, don't, don't! 

[She goes to the settee by the further window 
and throws herself upon it, burying her face 
in the pillows. He follows her. 

Laurence. 

[Standing behind the settee and bending over her.] 
Iris ! Dearest ! Listen ! If all went well with me, 
it wouldn't be hardship and a bare home I could wel- 
come you to. Within a few years there would be 
comforts, pretty walls to gaze at, servants to wait 
upon you ! 

Iris. 

[Looking up piteously.] Two Chinamen — or three? 
An extra boy to maid me? Oh, Laurie! 

Laurence. 

The Chinese are excellent servants. Eardley de- 
scribes them in one of his letters 

[Raising herself so that she kneels upon the 
settee, she puts her hands upon his 
shoulders. 

Iris. 

Another time! Let us discuss the point thoroughly 
another time. Laurie! Another time! 

Laurence. 
When? 

Iris. 

When we leave here. We are happy. Look! 



IRIS 89 

how blue the sky and the lake are ! Dear, life will 
never be quite like this again. After we have left 
this place ! 

Laurence. 

[Irresolutely.] If I say Yes ? 

Iris. 
[With a cry of delight.] Ah! 

Laurence. 

[Warningly.] Dearest, your term here expires in a 
fortnight. 

Iris. 

I can continue it for another month. 

Laurence. 

Another month ! 

Iris. 

Hush ! hush ! you have promised. I have your 

promise; I have your promise 

[There is the sound of voices in the distance. 

Iris. 

[Releasing him and listening.] Fanny and Croker ! 

[Pressing her hands to her eyes.] My face ! 

[She goes out quickly, at the door. He zvalks 
about in thought, his head bozvcd, his hands 
deep in his pockets. Coming upon the 
guitar, he picks it up, sits, and twangs its 
strings discordantly. At length, the voices 
growing nearer, he lays the guitar aside 



90 IRIS 

and interests himself with the magazines. 
Fanny and Croker enter at the further 
windozv, talking, 

Fanny. 
Yes, quite an unexpected encounter. 

Croker. 
Where does he hail from — I didn't gather ? 

Fanny. 
From Aix. I recognised his back instantly. 

Croker. 

You can claim no credit for that; it's the most 
prosperous-looking back in Europe. 

Fanny. 

[To Laurence.] If this invasion continues, Mrs. 
Bellamy will be driven from Cadenabbia by her friends, 
Mr. Trenwith. 

[Iris returns, unnoticed , outwardly composed 
and placid. 

Laurence. 

[Politely.] Only by a desire to follow them when 
they depart. Who is the new arrival, may I ask? 

Fanny. 
Mr. Frederick Maldonado. 



IRIS 91 

Iris. 

Ah! [They all turn towards her.] Of whom are you 
talking? 

Fanny. 

Our great friend — in every sense of the word — 
Freddy Maldonado. 

Croker. 

We met him a few minutes ago in the hall of the 
Belle Vue. 

Iris. 
[Calmly.] Oh, yes. 

Fanny. 

He has just come from Milan. He has been at 
Aix. 

[The servants enter, carrying a couple of light 
chairs. They proceed to arrange the tzvo 
additional places at the table. The doors 
are left open. 

Iris. 
[Advancing.] Indeed? Is he — ^well? 

Fanny. 
If he is, he's far better than he looks. I thought 
his appearance pretty shocking — didn't you, Croker? 

Croker. 
Let me sec — did I? 

Fanny. 

His colour! What does his complexion resemble? 



92 IRIS 

I know — that delicious subcutaneous part of a wedding- 
cake! [The men laugh.^ And his eyes! I suppose 
Aix has made him flabby — Vve never seen such great, 
heavy — what dye call 'em? — ^pouches as he has under 
his eyes. 

Croker. 

The acctmiulation of wealth. With him, even 
nature opens a deposit account. 

Fax NY. 

[After another laugh.} Well, what a moral! These 
are the sights that reconcile one to the possession of a 
moderate income. 

Iris. 

[In a low voice, looking away.] Poor Maldo ! 

Fanny. 

Eh? Oh. of course, dear. I exaggerate, as usual. But 
youll be able to judge for yourself; his first walk, 
naturally, will be taken in your direction. 

Iris. 

[Canstrain€dly.\ I — I hope so. [Perceizing that the 
manservani is waiting to address her.] Yes? 

Man-servaxt. 

Breakfast, ma'am. 

Iris. 

[At the table.] Fanny, will you face me? [To C^ker, 
indieating the chair on her right.] Croker — [to Lau- 
rence] Mr. Trenwith 

[They jiV— Iris with her back to the furth^ 



\ 



IRIS 93 

window, the others in the positions assigned 
to them. The woman-servant, who has 
previously withdrawn, nozu returns with a 
tray of various hors d'oeuvres. The man 
takes the tray from her and presents it 
to those at the table, who help themselves 
and eat during the talk which follows. The 
woman retires. 

Iris. 
This is delightful — delightful — delightful. 

Croker. 
Beyond measure, dear lady. 

Iris. 

Ah, but to have you and Fanny with me in these 
sweet surroundings ! 

[Croker raises her hand to his lips chivalrously. 

Iris. 
[Smiling.] Faithful One! 

Fanny. 

[Taking Iris's disengaged hand, across the table.] 
Divinity ! 

Iris. 

Dear Fanny ! [Looking at those around her, zvith a 
little sigh.] Ah, how many real, close friends can one 
hope to carry through life, if one is lucky, in spite of 
one's imperfections and infirmities ! Has it ever 
been estimated? 



94 IRIS 

Fanny. 

Oh, yes — as many as you can count upon the fingers 
of your two hands, we are told. 

Laurence. 

Upon one hand would be a closer computation, I 
fancy. 

Croker. 
You're right, Mr. Trenwith — barring the thumb. 

Iris. 
That, at least, allows me four. I have three here. 

Laurence. 
You are very kind 

Iris. 

Ah, but remember, you are only a cadet, Mr. Tren- 
with. Mr. Harrington and Miss Sylvain are fully 
graduated. 

Laurence. 

I am honoured by the humblest position assigned 
to me. 

Fanny. 

There is still one finger unprovided for. Who is to 
be the fourth — the faithful fourth? 

Croker. 
[To Iris.] Yes, whom would you elect to accom- 



IRIS 95 

pany us three to the vale of grey hairs and rheuma- 
tism? 

Iris. 

[Rejecting.] Whom ? 

Fanny. 
Freddy Maldonado? 

[Iris is silent, looking down upon her plate. 

Croker. 
Archie Kane? 

Fanny. 
Dear old Archie ! 

[TJie woman-servant enters with some letters 
and nezvspapers. She lays them on the 
table at Iris's side and, taking the tray 
from the man, goes out. The man employs 
himself at the sideboard in mixing a 
salad. 

Iris. 

[To the woman.] Thanks. [To those at the table, 
apologetically.} It is a habit of mine, when I am 
abroad, to clutch at my letters directly they arrive. 

Fanny. 
Unwise! You may find a bill — a heavy one. 

Iris. 
Ha, ha! 

Croker. 

A splendid corrective — the skeleton at the feast ! 



96 IRIS 

Iris. 

Let us drown the thought. Fanny drinks white 
wine, Croker. That water is Mattoni. 

[Croker helps Fanny to wine from a decanter 
zvhich has been transferred from the side- 
hoard to the table. 

Iris. 

[Passing a decanter of red wine to Laurence.] Mr. 
Trenwith ? 

Laurence. 
[Taking up the decanter.] May I ? 

Iris. 

[Pushing her glass towards him.] A Httle. [Observ- 
ing the newspapers.] The papers. I wonder whether 
the gossip contains news of poor Mrs. Wynning. 
[Selecting a newspaper and handing it to Croker.] 
Do look, Croker. 

Croker. 
Certainly. 

[He tears off the wrapper and opens the paper. 
The woman-servant returns, carrying a 
dish of mayonnaise of fish zvhich she 
deposits upon the sideboard. The man 
removes from the table the plates which 
have been used and replaces them with 
others. The woman again withdraws. 

Fanny. 
Mrs. Wynning? 



IRIS 97 

Iris. 

Haven't you heard? She was thrown from her 
dog-cart last week. 

Fanny. 
Oh! 

Iris. 

She had driven to the station at Champness to 
meet her husband. Her horse wasn't broken to trains, 
evidently, and bolted. 

Fanny. 

She is badly hurt? 

Iris. 

Terribly bruised and shaken, I fear. [To Croker.] 
Is there a paragraph? 

Croker. 

[Turning the paper.] Not in the middle of the 

paper. There may be a footnote 

[His eye is arrested by some matter in the 
paper and he reads silently and absorbedly. 

Iris. 
[Watching him.] There is an announcement. 

Croker. 
Y-yes. 

Iris. 

[Apprehensively.] Not reassuring? [After a pause.] 
Croker ! 

Croker. 

Extraordinary. Extraordinary. 



98 IRIS 

Fanny. 
Extraordinary? 

[Learning towards him, she discovers the item 
of news which interests him. 

Fanny. 

{BredthlesslySi Croker ! 

[The man-servant hands the dish of mayon- 
naise to Iris. 

Fanny, 

{In a strange voice.] Iris, dear, let us be alone for a 
few moments. 

Iris. 

[To the serzHint,] Fll ring. 

[The man places the dish before Iris and leaves 
the room, partially shutting . the doors. 
Directly he has disappeared, Fanny goes 
to the doors and completely closes them. 
Iris and Laurence rise from the table. 

Iris. 
Croker ! 

Croker. 

[Calmly.] Yes, most extraordinary. 

Iris. 
XLooking over his shoulder.] What ■' 

Croker. 
[Rising and moznttg azi*ay.] But there is nothing in 



IRIS 



99 



it, I am convinced. It must be an error— a gross 
lifjel- — 

Iris. ^.^^w 

Libel — upon whom? ,., 

Fanny. ' " •• 
[Coming to her.] Archie — Archie Kane! 



Archie- 



Iris. 



Fanny; 



Read it aloud, Croker. 

Croker. 

No, no, I can't credit anything of the kind. Don't 
be alarmed, I pray. 

[Fanny goes to him and takes the paper out of 
his hand. - 

Fanny. 

[Reading.] "The disquieting rumours which have 
recently been current concerning the sudden dis- 
appearance of a well-known London solicitor are 
unhappily substantiated by a statement formally 
issued yesterday by Mr. James Woodroffe, of the 
firm of Woodroffe & Kane of 71 Lincoln's Inn 
Fields. From this document it transpires that the 
missing gentleman is Mr. Woodroffe's partner — Mr. 
Archibald Sidmouth Kane — and its frank avowals 
afford too much reason to fear that the books of 
the firm will be found to furnish yet another lament- 
able instance of the injudicious confidence of clients." 
[There is a pause; then, in a mechanical zvay, Fanny 
resumes.] "Some sympathy is, however, claimed for 



LofC. 



100 IRIS 

Mr. Woodroffe, whose indifferent health for the past 
two years has unfitted him for business, and who has, 
in consequence, been induced to leave affairs in the 
complete control of his partner. Mr. Archibald Kane 
resided in Upper Brook Street and was exceedingly- 
popular in London society." [Looking from one to the 
other.] Eh — well? 

Croker. 
I repeat, I can't credit it. 

Fanny. 
That he has disappeared? 

Croker. 
That he's a rogue. 

Fanny. 

[Faintly.] Mr. Woodroffe's statement! And no 
newspaper would risk 

Croker. 

You have some other papers there. 

[Two newspapers remain upon the table. Lau- 
rence hands them to Iris, who passes 
them to Fanny. Fanny gives one to 
Croker and retains the other, and they pro- 
ceed to remove the wrappers. As they do 
so, they exchange glances, and ' then, to- 
gether, look at Iris, who is now sitting, on 
the left of the table, with her face averted. 

Fanny. 
Iris! 



IRIS loi 

Iris. 
Yes, dear? 

Fanny. 

Was another trustee to your husband's Will ever 
appointed in Tom Cautherley's place? 

Iris. 

No. It has been talked about. Some names are 
under consideration. Archie is the only trustee at 
present. 

[Again Fanny's eyes meet Croker's, and there 
is a further pause. Laurence goes out on 
to the balcony. 

Fanny. 
[To Croker.] You — you were in his hands? 

Croker. 

[With a nod and a smile.] H'm. And you? 

[She raises her arms slightly and lets them fall. 
Iris rises. 

Iris. 

[In level tones.] I entirely agree with Croker — we 
are upsetting ourselves quite needlessly. Dear Fanny, 
you know Archie — we all know Archie — too well to — 
[Walking about the room.] There will be an exphuKr- 
tion. This Mr. Woodroffe ! A case, perhaps, of a quarrel 
between partners. As for my own concerns, of course 
a fresh trustee ought to have been appointed at once 
when Mr. Cautherley died. [Pressing her fingers to her 



102 



IRIS 



temples.] Why hasn't it been seen to? Other interests 
are involved. / must see to it when I go back. 

[While Iris 'is talking and pacing the room, 
Fanny and Croker open and anxiously 
search the other newspapers; she sitting on 
the left of the breakfast-table, he by the 
lower window. 

Croker. • 

Substantially, the same report is in this paper. 

Fanny. 

I can find nothing. Your letters, Iris ! Have 
you received any letter ? 

Iris. 

[Examining her letters.] No. [With a smile.] As 
you were saying — tradesmen's accounts. [Surveying 
the breakfast-table and then looking at the others.] Our 
unfortunate little dejeuner! 

Fanny. 

[Energetically.] We mustn't sit here. [Jumping up.] 
We must send a telegram — a wire to London ! 

Croker. 

[Throwing his newspaper aside and rising zcith 
alacrity.] Yes. 

Fanny. 

Let us get the report confirmed, at any rate. 

Croker. 
Contradicted, we hope. 



IRIS 103 

Fanny. 
To whom can we ? 

Croker. 

Leave that to me. [lo Iris.] May I be excused? 

[She again smiles, in assent, and he seizes his 
hat and umbrella and comes to her. Fanny 
sits, on the left, resuming her search in the 
newspaper. 

Groker. 

Divinity, some day we shall enjoy a hearty laugh at 
the recollection of this scare. A scare — nothing else, 
take my word for it. Ah, yes, your charming 
breakfast ! You will invite me on another occasion ? 
[Bending over her hand, a suspicion of a tremor in his 
voice.] Many — many thanks. 

[He goes out at the door. She walks, aimlessly, 
to the middle of the room. 

Fanny. 

[Turning.] Croker, if you meet little Aurea, don't 
breathe a word — [following him] Croker! Let the 

child have her afternoon's pleasure undisturbed ! 

[She disappears. The doors are left open. 
Laurence, seeing that Iris is alone, comes 
to her side. They speak in hushed voices. 



Iris! 

[Impassively.] Yes? 



Laurence. 
Iris, 



104 



IRIS 



Laus 



This 



Is it 



man, Kane? Can it be that he's a 
possible ? 



Iris. 

No — nnpossible, ff;zpossible. 

Laurence. 
And yet — suppose — suppose ? 



scoundrel r 



Iris. 



What? 



Laurence. 
Suppose he has been tampering — speculating ? 

Iris. 
[Tremblingly.] With my fortune? 

Laurence. 
[Eloquently.] Ah, my dearest! my dearest! 

Iris. 

[Looking at him steadily, with a queer little twist 
of her mouth.] Yes — after all — after everything — 
wouldn't it be — droll? 

[Fanny's voice is heard, calling. 



[In the hall] Iris! 



Eh? 



Fanny. 



Iris. 



IRIS 105 

Fanny. 
Iris — a friend ! 

[Laurence retreats from her side, as Maldo- 
NADO enters. 

Maldonado. 

[Advancing.] Pardon. I am very unceremonious. 

Miss Sylvain 

[He breaks off. There is a moment of con- 
straint on her part, then she extends her 
hand to him. 

Iris. 
[Almost inaudibly.] Maldo ! 



[The curtain foils. 

END OF THE SECOND ACT. 



THE THIRD ACT 

The scene is that of the preceding act. It is night-time. 
Without, the lake sparkles under a full moon, while 
the lights of Bellagio cluster brightly at the water's 
edge. Within the rooni there is an air of prepara- 
tion for the departure of its tenant. The druggets 
are removed; and the statuary, curtains, candelabra, 
and much of the furniture, are in holland wrappers. 
One of the settees is pushed against the wall on the 
left — some footstools are piled upon it; and be- 
tween the middle window and the further window 
are two chairs, the one on iup of the other. Two 
bottles of champagne and some glasses are upon 
the table on zvhich breakfast was served in the pre- 
vious act. On the left of this table is the other 
settee, on its right a chair. The writing-table now 
stands out in the left-centre of the room, facing 
the lower and middle zi'indows. A chair is before 
it, and near at hand is a zvooden packing-case. 
The lid of the packing-case is open, and the guitar 
and a quantity of books and music are seen to have 
been carelessly throzvn in. 

The birds have disappeared from the balcony; a 
single bird-cage, covered with baize, stands upon 
one of the cabinets. The room is lighted by oil 
lamps. 



IRIS 107 

[Fanny Sylvain, with a set fate, deep in 
thought, is seated upon the settee in the 
centre of the room. She is in semi-toilette 
and has a lace scarf upon her shoulders. 
There is the faint sound of distant music. 
The double-doors open and Croker Har- 
rington, in travelling dress, is shown in by 
the man-servant. 

Croker. 

[To the man.] Please let Mrs. Bellamy know that 
I have just arrived. 

Man-servant. 

Mr. 'Arrington — yes, sir. 

[The servant withdrazvs, closing the doors. 
Fanny rises and shakes hands with Croker 
heartily. 



Fanny. 
Croker. 



Ah! 

My dear Fanny ! 

Fanny. 
Dear Croker! Have you had a pleasant journey? 

Croker. 
[With a wry face.] Pleasant! 

Fanny. 
How's London? 

Croker. 

[Placing his hat upon the zvriting-table and taking off 
his gloves.] Crowded. 



io8 IRIS 

Fanny. 
What, in the first week in October? 

Croker. 

Oh, under normal conditions I daresay I should have 
regarded it as a deserted village. But when a man is 
down, and desires to hide his head 

Fanny. 

The pavement sprouts acquaintances. 

Croker. 
Precisely. 

Fanny. 
[Laying a hand upon his arm.] No good news, then? 

Croker. 

[Shaking his head.] I might have spared myself the 
trouble 

Fanny. 

You undertook it for our sakes as well as for your 
own. I meant — no good news for yourself? We know 
our fate. 

Croker. 
You do ? 

Fanny. 

We have been in communication with the people who 
are engaged in examining the affairs of the wretched 
Woodrdffe. [With a gesture of despair.] Oh, it's aw- 
ful! 



IRIS log 

Croker. 

[Putting his gloves in his hat as an excuse for turn- 
ing away.] I am glad it doesn't fall to my lot to break 
the worst to you. 

Fanny. 

I've been robbed of every shilling, Croker. 

Croker. 



And I. 




Fanny. 


All gone- 


—every penny. 






Croker. 


Every cent — red or 


otherwise. 






Fanny. 


Where's 


that beast? 


Croker. 


Archie? 




Fanny. 


Puh! 







Croker. 
He's known to have reached America. 

Fanny. 
What has America done? 

Croker. 
Poor devil ! 

Fanny. 
Devil. 



no IRIS 

Croker. 

It was the collapse of this so-called Universal Finance 
Corporation that overwhelmed him, it appears. He was 
deep in it. 

Fanny. 

And we thought him a solid, cautious creature ! 

Croker. 

We were gulls. At the end he made a desperate ef- 
fort to save the concern, I hear — and with her money. 

Fanny. 

[Clenching her hands.] Oh! Where was he last 
seen ? 

Croker. 

At a theatre, complaining of the quality of the music 
played during an entr'acte. 

Fanny. 

If he'd only had the common decency to shoot him- 
self! Good heavens, and Fm thirty, Croker! 

Croker. 
I'm nearly forty. 

Fanny. 
And I'm losing my looks ! 

Croker, 
And I'm not. 

Fanny. 

Ha, ha, ha! You — you — you foolish [Hiding her 



IRIS III 

face upon his shoulder for a moment, then lifting her 
head cheerily and brushing her tears azvay.] Excuse 
me for compromising you. You'll take your coat off? 
She will be down in a few minutes. 



Croker. 

[Depositing his coat and hat upon the settee on the 
left.] Have you formed any plans yet? 

Fanny. 

Aurea and I go up to Scotland for a month or so, to 
relations — to enable us to "look round," as they ex- 
press it. Perhaps you can explain the process of "look- 
ing round" in the midst of a circle of solemn relatives. 

Croker. 

[Returning to her.] Oh, you talk in a low key, and 
play Halma in the evening, and get to bed early. 

Fanny. 
Ha! And you? 

Croker. 

One of the men I butted-into in town thinks I would 
make an ideal secretary for a new club about to be 
started in Piccadilly. 

Fanny. 
What is an ideal club-secretary? 

Croker. 

A fellow who sees that the members have every op 
portunity for grumbling, and no cause. [The musii 



112 IRIS 

ceases; he goes to the further windozv, which is open, 
and looks out.] Thank goodness, that wretched band 
is silent ! 

Fanny. 

Your musical taste is as fastidious as Mr. Kane's. 
[Sitting in the chair by the writing-table.] Fancy! for 
the remainder of one's life, if one lives to be a hundred, 
moonlight, a still, luscious evening, the sound of music 
— always to remind one of ruin ! 

Croker. 

[Coming to her and leaning over her chair, softly.] 
Fanny. 

Fanny. 
Yes? 

Croker. 

How does she bear it? 

Fanny. 

Splendidly. 

Croker. 
Ah! 

Fanny. 

I've loved her, as you know, for years, intensely; but 
I am proud of her now. Her whole nature seems to 
have expanded, Croker— become greater, nobler. 

Croker. 

[Tenderly.] The capacity was there; it only needed 
this. 

Fanny. 

Luckily she doesn't come off quite as deplorably as 



IRIS 113 

you and I — our poor Divinity. Her new man of busi- 
ness believes he'll manage to salvage about a hundred- 
and-fifty a year for her out of the wreck. 

Croker. 
[Wincing.] Tsch ! I hoped 

Fanny. 

It would have been more, but it turns out that she's 
heavily in debt, dear thing. 

Croker. 
He never curbed her. 

Fanny. 

Kane? Not he! Tempted her, I suspect — [starting 
up furiously] professed to be discharging her bills while 
he was embezzling the money, I shouldn't wonder. 

Croker. 
[Soothingly.] No, no; give the devil his due. 

Fanny. 

[Her fingers twitching.] If I could! if I could! 
[Calming herself as she walks about the room.] And 
so the lease of her house in London, her pictures and 
furniture, jewels, plate — they have all to be thrown into 
the pot; and she's left with the few louis she has in 
her porte-monnaie and the prospect of this miserable 
hundred-and-fifty a year. 

Croker. 
But her friends ! 



114 IRIS 

Fanny. 

She won't accept a sou from a living soul, she de- 
clares. [Setting herself upon the settee in the centre.] 
That's where she's so fine. She will live upon three 
paltry pounds a week. She ! 

Croker. 

[Standing beside her, zvith a confident smile.] Ah, 
for the present. But, my dear Fanny, one isn't resign- 
ing oneself to the secretaryship of a Piccadilly club for 
the rest of existence. [Going to the back of the settee 
and bending over it — speaking almost into her ear.] I, 
too, intend to "look round." And by-and-by— you and 
she — my playmates — companions with me in this mud- 
puddle game of life, in which we have all got seriously 
splashed 

Fanny. 

[Abruptly.] Ah, stop — of course, you've been away 
— ^you haven't heard ! 

Croker. 
What? 

Fanny. 
She has definitely engaged herself to young Trenwith. 

Croker. 
[Standing upright.] Ah! 

Fanny. 

At a moment when a man with even a moderate posi- 
tion in the world 1 But, there, she's given her heart 



IRIS T15 

to him, and she's full of pluck. God bless her ! 

[The distant music is heard again. 

Croker. 

[Somewhat huskily.] God bless them both ! He — 
he's a nice chap. And a fortunate one. [Sitting in the 
chair zuhich is behind her, his elhozv on the table, his 
hand shading his face.] Capital! capital! 

[Struck by his tone, she glances at him and ob- 
serves his attitude. After a slight pause, she 
rises and moves azvay to the open windozu, 
where she stands looking into the distance. 

Fanny. 

[Gently.] As you say, Mr. Trenwith is favoured of 
fortune. But it isn't to be quite yet awhile. 

Croker. 

No? 

Fanny. 

Not for two or three years, I gather. He goes out 
to a ranche in British Columbia and comes back to fetch 
her when he has succeeded in making a home for her. 
He starts for London directly — at something before six 
to-morrow morning. [Pointing to the champagne and 
glasses upon the table.] Look! you have returned in 
time to drink the boy's health. 

Croker. 

[Rising, cheerfully.] Excellent ! I'll drain my Inst 
bumper of champagne to him, preparatory to taking to 
club-porter. [Seriously.] And she, during his ab- 



ii6 IRIS 

sence ? [Ohserz'iug the condition of the room.] 

She vacates the Villa Prigno at once, evidently? 

Faxxy. 

She goes into a humble little Pension at Tremezzo, 
for a while. 

Croker. 

[Partially suppressing a groan.] Oh! 

Faxxy. 

[Coming to him.] Yes, she also dates her new life, 
practically, from to-morrow. Fve been upstairs with 
her, helping her to pack the few plain gowns she is 
retaining out of her stock. 

Croker. 
Why, has her maid ? 

Faxxy. 

Beaumont, her maid, went a week ago. [Croker 
sinks upon the settee, burying his head in his hands.] 
Oh, my dear man, don't groan. Our Divinity ! to see 
her on her knees among her trunks, with such a sweet, 
earnest, helpless, confident look — it's one of the prettiest 
sights imaginable ! 

[Maldoxado's z'oiee is heard lightly humming 
an accompaniment to the air played by the 
band. 

Faxxy. 
[Listening.] There's Frederick. 

Croker. 
[Looking up.] Frederick? 



IRIS n; 

Fanny. 
Maldonado. 

Croker. 

Oh, is he still here? 

Fanny. 

Yes. He has been so brotherly and sympathetic to 
us women. 

[She goes to the zvindozv and meets Maldo- 
nado. Maldonado is in evening dress and 
is smoking. Notwithstanding the changes 
in his appearance suggested by Fanny in 
the previous act, he appears to be in excel- 
lent spirits, 

Fanny. 
Good evening, Frederick. 

Maldonado. 

[On the balcony.} What a perfect night, eh? I've 
bestowed a few extra francs upon those fellows playing 
outside the Belle Vue. We will celebrate our young 
friend's leave-taking with musical honours. 

Fanny. 
Here's Croker. 

Maldonado. 

[Entering the room.] The traveller returned ! 
[Coming to Croker.] My dear boy! 

Croker. 

[Shaking hands with him zmtJiout rising.] Hullo, 
Freddy ! 



ii8 -IRIS 

Maldonado. 

I am still kicking my heels about the verge of this 
monotonous pond. [Observing that Fanny has gone 
out upon the balcony — lowering his voice.] One's heart 
bleeds for these ladies. And 3^et they both — with the 
characteristic obstinacy of their sex — decline to avail 
themselves of my poor services. How goes it? Your 
visit to London has not proved too satisfactory? 

Croker. 

Quite the reverse. Oh, except that I'm likely to take 
the secretaryship of the new club Bulkeley is promoting. 



No! 



Maldonado. 
Croker. 



Hope you'll come in. 

Maldonado. 

[With a protesting sJwug.] My dear, good Croker, 
we are pals of some years' standing, you and I — need I 
say more? Dooce take Bulkeley and his club! 

Croker. 
[Rising.] Freddy! 

Maldonado. 
[G7'andly.] Pish ! not a word. Pray write me a line. 

Croker. 
[With feeling.] Thanks, old man. I haven't reached 



IRIS 119 

that stage yet— never shall, I trust. [Gripping Mal- 
DONADo's hand.] But — thanks, old man. 

[Fanny returns to the room. The music ceases. 

Maldonadc. 

[Gently shaking Croker by the shoulder.] Confound 
you, you are as perverse as our fair friends — what ! 
[Breaking off upon perceiving Fanny and zualking 
ozvay.] I observe the banquet is prepared, my dear 
Fanny. [Throwing his hat upon the writing-table.] 
Where are the principal figures? 

Fanny. 
I think Fve just seen Mr. Trenwith in the garden. 

Maldonado. 

[Slightly unpleasantly.] Ho! Is he meditating a 
parting serenade under Iris's window? [Imitating the 
playing of a guitar.] R-r-rhm ! r-r-rhm, r-r-rhm, 
r-r-rhm — turn, turn ! He touches the guitar most grace- 
fully. 

Fanny. 

[Sitting at the table on the right.] The mandolins. 
Don't be unfeeling, Frederick. 

Maldonado. 

Unfeeling! I! When I am here to join in the gen- 
eral tearful farewell! [To Croker.] You've heard the 
great news? 

Croker. 
[Again seated upon the settee.] Just heard it. 



120 IRIS 



Maldonado. 

[Carelessly examining a photograph of Laurence 
which he takes from the writing-table.'] And haven't I 
pledged myself to rise at an unconscionably early hour 
to-morrow morning, in order that I may escort this 
lucky young gentleman to the steamboat and report 
upon the final incidents of his departure? You'll assist, 
Croker ? 

Croker. 
With pleasure. 

Maldonado. 

No, upon second thoughts, I decline to share the 
privilege. I hold the commission direct from Iris, and 
I claim the right of executing it unaccompanied. 

[Laurence, wearing a suit of blue serge, ap- 
pears upon the balcony, 

Maldonado. 

[Laying the photograph aside.] Yes, here is the hero 
of the occasion. We are talking about you, my dear 
Laurence. 

Laurence. 

[Entering the room.] Are you? [To Croker, who 
advances to meet him.] Mr. Harrington! [They shake 
hands.] I'm glad you're back in time to give me a 
parting shake of the hand. 

Croker. 

Trenwith, I congratulate you, from the bottom of my 
heart. 

Laurence. 

[With feeling.] Isn't it— isn't it jolly? 



IRIS 121 

[Iris enters quietly, closing the door after her. 
She is plainly dressed, without ornament of 
any kind. Her face is somewhat wan, her 
eyes red, her manner very gentle and sub- 
dued; hut her whole appearance and hear- 
ing express a spirit of happiness and re- 
solve. Fanny rises, and the men, hearing 
Iris enter, turn silently towards her. She 
advances to Croker. 
Iris. [Giving him her hand.] Dear Croker 

Croker. 
The bad penny! 

Iris. 
With no satisfactory news of your affairs? 

Croker. 

I'm all right — a bachelor whose hat covers his king- 
dom. What about yourself? 

[Laurence is on her other side; she lays a 
hand upon his arm. 

Iris. 
[To Croker.] They have told you ? 

Croker. 
[With a nod.] I've returned in the nick of time, eh? 

Iris. 

I should always have grieved if you had not been 
with us to-night. You congratulate us? 



122 IRIS 



Croker. 



[Smiling at Laurence.] I've already patted him on 
the back. 

Laurence. 
That he has ! 

Iris. 

Give me your good wishes. 

Croker. 

[A break in his voice.] Oh, my dear ! 

[Stooping a little, she invites him to kiss her brow, 

Croker. 
[His lips touching her forehead.] I congratulate you. 

Iris. 

[Going to Maldonado.] Good evening, Maldo. We 
have dragged you away from the dinner-table. [Sur- 
veying the table on the right, happily.] Look at our 
modest preparations — the last of my excesses ! After 
to-night — [Going to the settee in the centre and speak- 
ing, across the table, to Fanny.] Fanny, ask Henry to 

give us our wine. Croker 

[Fanny goes out at the door. Iris sits upon 
the settee and Croker comes to her side. 
Maldonado and Laurence — ^Maldonado^s 
arm round Laurence^s shoulder — move 
away to the open window. The music is re- 
sumed. 

Iris. 

[To Croker.] You have heard everything from 
Fanny, Faithful One? 



IRIS 123 

Croker. 

[Nodding.] You are moving on to Tremezzo, I un- 
derstand? 

Iris. 

To-morrow morning, early, [closing her eyes] di- 
rectly I hear that I am alone — that he has gone. [Re- 
covering herself.] I shall remain there for a few weeks 
— the Pension is moderately clean and pleasant — and 
then transfer myself to another cheap place, Varese 
perhaps. [With enthusiasm.] As long as I avoid heavy 
travelling-expenses, I shall manage admirably, admir- 
ably. 

Croker. 

[Compassionately.] You are like a child with a new 
toy, Divinity. 

Iris. 
[Reproachfully.] Croker! Poverty — a new toy! 

Croker. 

A new experience, at any rate. [Earnestly.] Are 
you sure you are justified in imposing this ordeal upon 
yourself? 

Iris. 
Ordeal ? 

Croker. 
This life of mean economy. 

Iris. 
It is imposed upon me by circumstances, 



124 



IRIS 



Croker. 

They can be lightened by friends. It is maddening 
to reflect that I am useless to you at such a crisis; but 
there are dozens of other people who are attached to 
you — Freddy Maldonado 

Iris. 

No, no. [In an altered tone.] Croker — [He seats 
himself beside her, on her left.] Dear, dear friend, I — 
I want to tell you — [dropping her voice.] I welcome 
this change in my fortunes; I welcome it. 



Welcome it! 



Croker. 



Iris. 



I have deserved it, Croker. I regard it as my proper 
penalty, my scourge. 

Croker. 
Scourge ! for what, in heaven's name ? 

Iris. 

[Evasively.] Oh, do you imagine a woman can be 
as self-centred as I have been, pamper herself as I have 
done, * without meriting chastisement? 



Croker. 

You are a good woman, to receive your reverses in 
this spirit. 

Iris. 

[Drawing a deep breath.] Am I? There can be 
nothing very meritorious in accepting resignedly that 



IRIS 125 

which gives me self-respect, makes me worthier of 
Laurence, equips me for the future I am one day to 
share with him [Shaking her head.] It is only another 
— a better — form of selfishness. Oh, but I feel so much 
happier ; so much happier ! 

Croker. 
[Patting her hand]. And to-morrow ? 

Iris. 

To-morrow I actually enter into my new being. To- 
morrow ! 

[Fanny returns, followed by the man-servant, 
who proceeds to open one of the bottles of 
champagne and to Ull the glasses. Iris rises 
and, going to the open window, speaks to 
Laurence and Maldonado, who are now 
upon the balcony. Fanny joins Croker. 

Iris. 
[To Fanny^ as she passes her.] Thanks, dear Fanny. 

Fanny. 
[To Croker, eagerly.] Has she been talking to you? 

Croker. 
Yes. 

Fanny. 

Well! Am I not right — isn't she noble? 

Croker. 
[Nodding.] All conditions of life are relative. For 



126 IRIS 

her, this is martyrdom. [A cork is drawn; he glances, 
over his shoulder, at the table.] I feel as if I were 
about to help fire the faggots. 

[He stands with Fanny at the table, she on 
one side, he on the other. Iris brings Lau- 
rence into the room; Maldonado follows 
them and goes to the table. 

Maldonabo. 

May I have the honour of presiding at these pro- 
ceedings ? 

Iris. 

[Sitting by the zvriting-table.] How simple you are, 
Maldo ! 

Maldonado. 

Ha! there is a jealous light in our Croker's eye. 
But I would have him know that the idea of this cere- 
mony originates with me — a stirrup-cup to Mr. Tren- 
with ! 

Croker. 

[Presenting a glass of champagne to Iris.] A stir- 
rup-cup to a traveller by boat and rail ! Your metaphor 
is faulty, Freddy. 

Maldonado. 

[Gaily.'] Hark! he revenges himself upon my meta- 
phors ! 

[Croker walks away towards the open window, 
laughi7tg. Fanny brings a glass of cham- 
pagne to Laurence^ who is standing at 
Iris's side, and returns to the settee. The 
servant withdraws. The music stops. 



IRIS 127 

Maldonado. 

[Handing a glass of wine to Fanny.] My dear 
Fanny 

Fanny. 
[Seating herself upon the settee.] Thanks, Frederick. 

Maldonado. 

[Giving a glass to Croker.] Croker ! [Raising his 
own glass.] Our friend, Mr. Trenwith — my dear young 
companion of the past three weeks — whose departure 
to-morrow morning is, let us hope, an unerring step 
towards the briUiant future we desire for him! [To 
Laurence, toasting him.] Laurence, my dear boy! 
[Generally.] Mr. Trenwith! 

[All, save Laurence, put their glasses to their 
lips. 

Maldonado. 

Yes, a few weeks hen(::e our friend Trenwith embarks 
upon a career in a distant country, far away — a great 
deal too far away — from those who, in spite of short 
acquaintance, have learned to hold him in their esteem, 

in their affection. [With a gesture.] Laurie 

[Laurence advances to Maldonado, who again 
places an arm round his shoulder. 

Maldonado. 

You have a stiff time before you, dear boy. But the 
thought of the reward awaiiing you will put grit into 
the toiler, carry him lightly over his hundreds of acres, 
and give ease to his weary limbs at the end of the day. 
And then, the triumph — hey? — the hour when the vie- 



128 IRIS 

tor returns to us ; when he claims the prize ; when he 
is in a position to beseech deHcate beauty to grace his 
modest establishment at — what do you call the 
place ? 

Fanny. 
Soda Creek. 

Maldonado. 

Ha ! — and to beg her to transform it, by her presence, 
into a palace ! I drink to that hour and to the lady who 
inspires the fascinating picture — [raising his glass 
again] the lady who embodies, in her single person, 
loveliness, virtue, unspeakable charm ; whose very 
name, for those assembled here, is perfume and music 
combined ! Iris ! 

[All, except Iris, drink the toast ; after which 
ceremony Fanny puts her glass aside and 
goes to Iris and embraces her. 

Laurence. 

[Informally.] Thank you, Mr. Maldonado. If one 
has to leave one's friends behind one, there is a grim 
consolation in knowing that they're such true friends 
— the best a man ever had. 

Croker. 

[Dryly.] Freddy, I've never heard you in better 
form, even at a City banquet. 

Maldonado. 
[Good-humouredly.] Ha, ha! 



IRIS 129 

Iris. 

[Goi7ig to Maldonado zuith outstretch'^d hands.] 
Thanks, thanks, dear Maldo. 

[Laurence, Iris, and Maldonado form a group 
on the right, talking together. Croker joins 
Fanny on the left. 

Croker. 
[To Fanny.] Fanny 

Fanny. 
Eh? 

Croker. 

Pish ! Why need Freddy treat us to that piece of 
bombast? Of course it isn't so — but he spoke as if 
he didn't feel a syllable of it. 

Fanny. 

I agree with you — a few simple words and a hand- 
shake 

Maldonado. 

[Paternally, to Iris and Laurence.] Well ! having 
discharged my duty, and mixed my metaphors, I leave 
you two young people to yourselves and to the com- 
pany of the moon. 

[Croker moves to take up his hat and coat. 

Iris. 

[Smiling.] No, I am going to hand Laurence over 
to your keeping at once, Maldo. 

[Croker and Fanny look round in surprise. 



130 IRIS 

Maldonado. 
[Also raising his brows.] At once? 

Iris. 

[Composedly, hut with eyes averted.] You have 
promised to see him on board the boat in the morning? 

Maldonado. 
Oh, yes. 

Iris. 
Half-past-five ! 

Maldonado. 
Five forty-two, to be precise. 

Iris. 

It is very good-natured of you to deprive yourself 
of your rest. 

Maldonado. 
[Gallantly.] Ah, for you ! 

Iris. 
[Smiling again.] No, for him. 

Maldonado. 

But I am to come to you afterwards, to bring you 
his final message? 

Iris. 

[With an inclination of the head.] I shall remain 
here till you have called. 



IRIS 131 

Maldonado. 

[Bending over her hand.} Good-night. These are 
the sad moments of life — but you are brave. That's 
admirable of you. Good-night. 

Iris. 
Good-night, Maldo. 

Maldonado. 

[Taking his hat from the writing-table and shaking 
hands with Fanny.] I wish you good-night, dear 
Fanny. 

Fanny. 
Good-night, Freddy. 

Maldonado. 

[Shaking hands with Croker, who is again at the 
further window.] Good-night, my dear Croker. 

Croker. 
Good-night. 

Maldonado. 

[Turning.] You will find me in the garden, Laurie, 
sounding your praises to the lizards. 

[Laurence ivaves a hand to him in response 
and he departs by way of the balcony. 
Laurence advances to Fanny. 



Laurence. 

[Simply.] I want to thank you for your kindness 
to me. Miss Sylvain. 



132 IRIS 

Fanny. 

[Somewhat remorsefully.] Ah! 

Laurence. 

Fate is taking you in another direction for a time ; 
but I shall ahvays think of you — it will be a consola- 
tion to me to do so — as being at Iris's side. 

Fanny. 

I shall contrive to be near her again soon, never fear. 
[He holds out his hand; she grasps it.] Luck! 

Laurence. 
[Firmly.] I shall have it. 

Fanny. 
[In a whisper.] Don't be long. 

Laurence. 

[Lifting his head high.] No; I sha'n't be long. 

[He leaves Fanny and encounters Croker, 

who comes to him. 

Croker. 
[Shortly.] Well, Trenwith ! 

Laurence. 
Well, Mr. Harrington! 

Croker. 

When does England see you again? 



IRIS 133 

Laurence. 
In two years — three, at the furthest. 

Croker. 

I beheve you. If I'm ahve 

[They grip hands and part. Iris is now on 
the balcony; Laurence joins her there. 
Fanny and Croker, the one on the left of 
the room, the other on the right, stand de- 
liberately looking away from the lovers. 
Laurence takes Iris in his arms and kisses 
her; then he calls to Maldonado. 



Mr. Maldonado! 



Laurence. 



Maldonado. 



[In the distance.] Ohi ! 

[Laurence disappears and Iris remains on the 
balcony, leaning upon the balustrade, zuat cit- 
ing his retreating figure. Fanny, discover- 
ing by a glance that Iris is alone, goes 
quickly to Croker, zvho is struggling with 
his overcoat. 







Fanny. 


[Breathlessly.] 


Croker 






Croker. 


Eh? 




Fanny. 


Is this 


their farewell? 



134 



IRIS 



Croker. 
[Puzzled.] I — I presume so. 

Fanny. 
[In complete astonishment.] Good gracious ! 

Croker. 

Oh, but we forget — they have said good-bye already, 
poor children. 



Fanny. 

[Nodding.] Yes, that must be it. Still — [rousing 

herself.] Shall I assist you ? 

[She helps him into his coat. The hand strikes' 
up a fresh air, and the curtain drops. It 
rises after a moment's pause and the win- 
dows and the jalousies are closed and the 
room is in almost total darkness. Through 
the darkness Iris is seen reclining upon 
the settee in the centre, sleeping. Laurence 
sits in a chair at the head of the settee, 
watching her. Both are dressed as in the 
earlier part of the act. The bells of a neigh- 
bouring church tinkle a little chime and 
then strike the quarter-hour ; at short in- 
tervals this is repeated by other bells in the 
distance ; whereupon Laurence rises softly 
and tip-toes over to the writing-table. 
There, taking a match-box from his pocket, 
he strikes a match and lights a zvax taper 
which stands upon the table. The light 
awakens the sleeper, who opens her eyes 
and, raising herself upon her elbozv, stares 



IRIS 135 

at him. He produces his watch, winds it, 
and sets its time by that of a travelling- 
clock upon the table. 

Iris. 
Laurence ! 

Laurence. 
Hush ! don't be alarmed. 

Iris. 
[Confused.^ What ? 

Laurence. 

The lamp has burnt itself out. The church-bells 
chimed ; and I struck a match, to look at my watch. 

Iris. 

[Pressing her hands upon her eyes.^ I had fallen 
asleep. 

Laurence. 

Yes ; I have been sitting here, watching you. 

[She rises, with his help, a little unsteadily, 
and walks across to the ivriting-table, zchere 
she consults the travelling-clock. 

Iris. 

A quarter past four. [Turning to him.] Oh! Why, 
you will soon — soon be — ['clinging to him] almost di- 
rectly ! Oh, how cruel of you to allow me to 

sleep — to waste the time ! How cruel of you ! [Ob- 
serring a faint light through the chinks of the 
jalousies.] There's the dawn. 







136 IRIS 

Laubence. 
[Sorrowfully.] Yes. 

Iris. 

The dawn ! 

[She turns from him and, seating herself in the 
chair before the uTiting-table, lays her head 
upon the table and weeps. 

Laurence. 

[Bending over her.] You were so white and weary, 
I saw your eyelids drot^ing, drooping; I hadn't the 
heart to rouse you. Dearest! dearest! dearest! 

[She composes herself gradually and rises, dry- 
ing her eyes. 

Iris. 

[Humbly.] Forgive me; I am very childish. Noth- 
ing can alter it — ^the day has to b^n. [Indicating 
the further window.] Open the jalousies. 

[He opens the window and, stepping out upon 
the balcony, pushes back the jalousies. The 
dawn is seen, leaden-coloured and forbid- 
ding. She blows out the light of the taper 
and joins him at the window as he re-enters. 
He closes the window and they stand to- 
gether for a while, his arm round her waist, 
gazing at the prospect. 

Iris. 

[Shivering.] Oh! oh! oh! 

- [She leaves him and walks away to the settee 



IRIS 137 

in the centre, wkm-e she sits with a scared 
look upon her face. He follows her. 

Iris. 

Laurie 

Laurence. 

Yes? 

Iris. 
[Piteously.] It was a mistake, dear. 

Laurence. 
A mistake? 

Iris. 

This sitting together through the night and talking 
away our last hours. It would have been wiser if I 
had done what I at first had a mind to do — parted from 
you yesterday when the sun was shining brilliantly. 

Laurence. 

[With an attempt at cheeriness.] The sun will show 
himself again in a few minutes. 

Iris. 

As it does when one is driving home from a late 
ball — defining everything sharply, making everything 
appear terribly distinct, [holding out her hands to him] 
terribly true. [He sits beside her and, slipping her arm 
through his, she rests her head upon his shoulder.] For 
how long was I sleeping? 

Laurence. 
An hour, perhaps. 



138 IRIS 

Iris. 

And one's blood Is always sluggish at dawn. It's 
at early morning that people sink and die. [Trem- 
blingly.] Laurie! 

Laurence. 
[Kissing her brow.] Dearest ! 

Iris. 

I am afraid I have lost some of my courage; Vm 
frightened, I'm afraid. 

Laurence. 
Frightened ? 

Iris. 
At your going away — at your leaving me. 

Laurence. 
Why, you were full of courage a little while ago. 

Iris. 

Yes, and then I dropped off to sleep, [nestling closer 
to him] and became chilled. 

Laurence. 
[Deliberately.] Iris 

Iris. 

What? 

Laurence. 

Listen, Iris — now listen. 



IRIS 439 

Iris. 

[Fondly.] I am listening; of course I am listening 
— listening 

Laurence. 

Dearest, why should we not change our plans, even 
at the eleventh hour — abandon the idea of separating, 
separating until I am prepared to receive you? Pre- 
pared to receive you ! what a stupid, formal sound the 
phrase has ! Iris, my love, my wife, follow me to 
London to-morrow. I will book your passage in the 
ship, by telegram, immediately I get to town ; we will 
be married as quickly as possible after our arrival at 
Montreal — there or at Victoria ; we will go out to- 
gether. What do you say? 

Iris. 
[ Yearningly. ] Ah ! ah ! ah ! 

Laurence. 

Yes, go out together; share the struggle from the 
very beginning; endure together; build up prosperity 
atom by atom, together. 

Iris. 

[Shaking her head.] Ah, if it could be, dear; if it 
could be ! 

Laurence. 
Why can't it be? 

Iris. 
Oh, what a contempt Fanny would have for me ! 



I40 IRIS 

Laurence. 
[Disdainfully.] Fanny ! 

Iris. 

After all my protestations. And Croker and Maldo ! 
[Releasing him and sifting az;.'ay from him.] Yes, and 
how I should despise myself ! 

Laurence. 

Without the smallest reason. 

Iris. 

Loathe myself ! And how you would despise me, 
by-and-by, upon reflection ! 

Laurence. 
I! 

Iris. 

Recollecting that I had declined to make a sacrifice 
for you when I was well-off ; that it was not till I was 
poor — almost as poor as yourself — that I would marry 
you ; and that then I promptly hung myself round your 
neck like a stone — became a dead weight upon you at 
a time when you most needed freedom from care and 
responsibility. 

Laurence. 

Whenever you come to me — two, three years hence — 
you will come as a poor woman ; you will come as a 
precious burden to me. 



IRIS HI 

Iris. 

But after I have had my own struggle, my own battle 
with poverty, singly, alone ; after I have proved to you 
that I can live, patiently, uncomplainingly, without lux- 
ury, willingly relinquishing costly pleasures, content 
with the barest comfort. [Rising.] Yes, yes — after I 
have shown you that there are other, and better, and 
deeper qualities in my nature than you have suspected ; 
than I, myself, have suspected. [He rises and takes 
her in his arms.] Then, then I'll join you, Laurie. 
And in the meantime you mustn't seek to make me 
falter in my resolutions. Help me to keep them, dear. 
I could cut my tongue out for having spoken as I did 
just now; I felt cold; I hadn't lost courage, really. 
[Putting him from her and standing erect.] Look at 
me! Fanny declares she's proud of me. [Sitting in 
the chair by the writing-table.] Well — and you ? 

Laurence. 

[Kneeling before her and taking her hands in his.] 
Proud ! proud ! No man, honoured by the favours of 
a queen, ever felt deeper pride than I feel in the pos- 
session of your love. 

Iris. 

[Bending over him so that her lips almost touch his 
hair.] My love — yes; but this other, loftier, purer side 
of me — I want you to be proud of that. 

Laurence. 

It is of that that I am proud. I cannot dissociate 
your love from your goodness; in my mind they have 



142 IRIS 

always been one. You have always been to me the 
best, the sweetest of women- 

Iris. 

[Smiling sadly.] Ah! ah! But before you return 
to claim me you must forget. [Ep.treatingly.] You 
will forget? 

Laueexce. 
Forget — and remember. 

Iris. 

Oh, forget dear, more than you remember. Come 
to me then as if you had never known me — or known 
me but a little. Let us then leam each other, as it 
were, afresh; raise up barriers between us, for the 
dehght of breaking them down. [Looking into space.] 
Two years — three ! 

Lauezxce. 
They will pass quickly. 

Iris. 

I pray they will; and yet, for shame's sake, not too 
quickly. So that, when you come to marry me, you 

may marry 

Laurence. 

Yes? 

Iris. 

One who is a stranger to you. 

[The church-bells strike the half -hour. They 
listen with strained ears. After a pause, 
he rises slowly. 



IRIS .143 

Iris. 

[Dully.] What is that? 

Laurence. 

[Walking away from her, his head bowed.] Half- 
past four, I think. [Other bells are heard. 

Iris. 

I have lived here — how many weeks? — and have 
scarcely noticed those bells — 

[She goes to him and they stand side-by-side, 
without speaking, their hands tightly locked. 

Laurence. 

[After the silence, with an assumption of cheerful- 
ness.] I've a little over an hour — that's ample. I paid 
my score last night, and the porter already has my big 
baggage. I've only to make my toilet and throw a few 
things into a kit-bag. [Rubbing his chin.] No time 
for a shave, though. I wonder whether the wait at 
Como will be long enough to enable me to visit a barber. 

Iris. 
[Passing her hand over his chin.] Untidy fellow! 

Laurence. 
Untidy ! oh, upon the ranche 

Iris. 
You won't wear beard? not a beard! 



144 IRIS 

Laurence. 

It shall be removed, in any event, before — before 
we 

Iris. 

Yes, don't you dare ever to venture into my pres- 
ence 

[They laugh together, pitifully; and, in the 
end, their laughter dying out, she cries un- 
restrainedly upon his shoulder. Then, with 
an eifort, she leaves his side and throics 
open the further window. The heavy sky is 
now streaked with an ugly yellow bar. 

Iris. 

There are some rain-drops. Has the weather broken 
at last? 

[He goes mechanically to the settee on the left 
and fetches his hat. 

Iris. 

[Coming to him and turning up the collar of his 
coat.] Run, directly you get on to the road. 

[They zi'alk to the open window. 

Laurence. 

[Looking out.] Yes — rain. [Huskily.] I'm afraid 
you'll be — horribly dull. 

Iris. 

Shut the jalousies, so that the servants may find 
them closed. [With clenched hands.] Go now. 

[They embrace finally. . He kisses her hands, 
her eyes, her lips. 



IRIS 145 

Iris. 

[In his ear.] I have loved you. I shall love you 
always. I shall love you always. 

[He goes out on to the balcony, where he 
pauses y looking at her. 

Iris. 

Close the jalousies! shut them! 

[He closes the jalousies, she the ivindow, and 
the room is once more in darkness. With 
a low wail, she totters to the settee in the 
centre and throws herself upon it, burying 
her face in the pillows and sobbing violently. 
The curtain descends — rising again almost 
immediately. It is now day, but the rain 
is falling heavily, and the lake, and the hills 
beyond, are obscured as if by a grey veil. 
Iris — dressed as before — is sitting in a chair 
by the further window, absorbed in contem- 
plating the dreary prospect. Her hat, cape, 
and gloves are on the tabic on the right: 
and on the chair which remains at the head 
of the settee in the centre is her dressing- 
bag, open. The wooden case has disap- 
peared, but the bird-cage, with its cover 
raised, is still upon the cabinet. The man- 
servant enters at the door. 

Man-servant. 
I beg your pardon, ma'am. 

Iris. 
[Turning.] Eh? 



146 IRIS 

Man-servant. 
At what hour do you desire the fly — the carriage? 

Iris. 

[Rising.] I am expecting Mr. Maldonado — directly 
he has left me. [The man is going.] Put the bird upon 
the front seat. Be careful. [He takes up the cage, 
zuhich contains a solitary canary, and is again about 
to depart.] Wait. 

[The man returns, placing the cage upon the 

table. She goes to her dressing-bag and 

searches for, and finds, a small velvet sack. 

From this she produces, quite heedlessly, a 

handful of gold pieces. 

Iris. 

[Throwing the little sack back into the dressing-bag.] 
I shall be much obliged to you if you will distribute 
this among the servants, including yourself. [Giving 
him the money and moving away towards the zvriting- 
table.] I thank you all for the attention I have re- 
ceived here. 

Man-servant. 

[Staring at the money, zchich he holds in two hands.] 
I — I really beg pardon, ma'am 

Iris. 
[ Turn ing. ] What ? 

Man-servant. 

I — that is, we — we've heard — that is, we've been given 
to understand 



IRIS 

Iris. 

Eh? Ah, yes. [Graciously.] But this is the last 
time I may have the privilege — [Busying herself in col- 
lecting certain little personal objects — her diary, date- 
case, address-book, a stamp-box, &c. &c. — zuhich are 
upon the writing-table.] I thank you once more. 

Man-servant. 

We — we are exceedingly grateful, ma'am. 

[Removing the cover from the bird-cage, he 
pours the money into it and, carrying the 
cage in one hand and the improvised money- 
bag in the other, withdraws. She takes up 
Laurence's portrait and studies it fondly; 
then, after pressing it to her lips, she pro- 
ceeds to find a place for it in her dressing- 
bag. The man-servant reappears, 

Man-servant. 
Mr. Maldonado. 

[Maldonado — wet and mud-splashed — enters 
briskly and comes to her. 



Iris. 
[Giving him her hand.] I have been waiting for you. 

Maldonaeo. 

I went as far as Sala in the boat; [giving his hat to 
the servant] there I landed, and have tramped back. 



Iris. 
Maldo ! You are drenched ! 



148 



IRIS 



Maldonado. 
Tsch! 

[He slips out of the cloak he is wearing and 
hands that also to the servant^ who finally 
retires. 

Iris. 
[Gratefully.] You have been true to your promise. 



Maldonado. 
[Triumphantly.] A'ha ! 

Iris. 
Rising betimes, upon such a morning! 

Maldonado. 

[Laughingly.] I was on my balcony at four o'clock, 
watching the dawn. 

Iris. 

[Turning away and sitting in the chair by the wri- 
ting table.] The dawn ? 

Maldonado. 

[Pulling off his zvet gloves.] 1 was restless — I sup- 
pose because I knew I had your business on hand. 
Before five I was outside the Britannia, throwing 
stones at Laurie's window. We had coffee together, 
he and I, and then, arm-and-arm, made for the pier. 



Iris. 
Poor boy ! Was he very downcast ? 



IRIS 149 

Maldonado. 

His heart was heavy enough, doubtless, but — [with 
a shrug] at eight-and-twenty, a new world ahead of 

you 

Iris. 
Naturally. 

Maldonado. 

Phew ! [Seating himself upon the settee in the cen- 
tre.] Never heeding the rain, we paced the deck of the 
little steamer unceasingly. How time flies, when 
there is a common point of interest between two 
men! Our theme? Need I say we talked of you, 
of nothing but you, my dear Iris — our friend, our 
mistress, our goddess ? 

Iris. 
[Gently protesting.] Hush! 

Maldonado. 

Ha, ha, ha ! no. Now I reflect upon it, I believe I 
appropriated rather more than my fair share of the 
conversation. On certain topics, when once I am set 

going — ha ! 

Iris. 

I am sure you cheered and amused him. 

Maldonado. 

Ultimately I was put ashore, and the boat went off 
without me — went ofi^ hooting into the wet fog — and 
I was left staring at the particular patch of cloud that 
had engulfed her. Upon my soul, T think I was the 
more cut up of the two — no, that's exaggeration, of 



150 



IRIS 



course. But the mental picture of the lonely lady of 
this villa— at her bed-room window, eh? — her eyes 
trying to pierce the mist — the mist of her tears and 

of the beastly, sodden air 

[He rises abruptly, and goes to the further 
windoiv and looks out. Sh? wipes her 
tears away with her handkerchief. After 
a moment or two he comes to her and lays 
a hand upon her shoulder consolingly. 

Iris. 
The last word he spoke — tell me — — 

Maldonado. 

Unfortunately, at Sala there was some confusion 
over his luggage and he was called from my side ; so 
he had no opportunity — dear chap ! — of sending a 
final message. 



[Disappointed.] Ah ! 



Iris. 



Maldonado. 

But it's not difficult to surmise what its purport 
would have been. [Looking at his watch.] Not difficult, 
at any rate, for a poor devil who is also compelled to 
wrench himself away from you. 



Iris. 



You, Maldo? 



Maldonado. 

I, too, make my plunge into the mist this morning. 
I am driving to Porlezza, to pick up the afternoon 
train at Lugano. 



IRIS 



151 



Iris. 
[Rising.] You go to London? 

Maldonado. 

To Brussels and Paris. I have received some up- 
braiding telegrams from our houses there. 

Iris. 
Ah, you have wasted so much of your time with us. 

Maldonado. 
Wasted ! 



Iris. 

Bestowed so much of your time upon us, I will 
say. 

Maldonado. 

[Stroking his beard.] I was determined, at all costs, 
to see the end of poor Laurence. 

Iris. 

[With a pathetic pucker of her mouth.] Aijd Fanny 
and Croker to-morrow ! And I — I at the little Pension 
at Tremezzo. 

Maldonado. 

Picturesque, dirty Tremezzo, with its thousand 
odours ! That reminds me — before I wish you good- 
bye — [running his hand over the outside of his pockets] 

— tsch! Have I left it at the hotel? — no, here it is 

[He produces, from his breast-pocket, an un- 
used cheque-book and carelessly turns its 
leaves. 



152 IRIS 

Iris. 
What is that? 

Maldonado. 

Before I say good-bye, let me explain why I leave 
this in your keeping. 

Iris. 
[Instinctively shrinking a little.] A cheque-book? 

Maldonado. 

My reason is this. I have presumed — ah, don't be 
too indignant with me — to pay into my bank, to your 
account — to the account of Iris Bellamy 

Iris. 
No, no ! 

Maldonado. 

I am humbly conscious that I appear to be opposing 
your wishes in doing what I have done. 

Iris. 
Deliberately opposing them, Maldo. 

Maldonado. 

What a terribly censorious expression! Well, if 
the amount were anything very considerable, there 
would, perhaps, be some justification for it. 

Iris. 
I have already explained 

Maldonado. 
But a few hundred pounds — a thousand or so 



IRIS 



153 



Oh, Maldo! 



Iris. 
Maldonado. 



As a small reserve in the event of your being 
pressed by a debt— a debt overlooked in the general 
settlement 



Please- 



Iris. 



Maldonado. 



Or your feeling unhappy at Tremezzo, or else- 
where 

Iris. 

[Touching his arm, appealingly.] Maldo 

Maldonado. 
Poverty abounds in unpleasant surprises. 

Iris. 



Maldo! Maldo! 



Eh? 



Maldonado. 
Iris. 



Don't think me horribly ungracious. Indeed, indeed, 
I am full of gratitude to you, my dear friend. But 
upon the question of accepting help — money — I am 
firm ; I am as hard as adamant. You must not, 
therefore, consider me unkind 

Maldonado. 

If you don't honour me by drawing a single cheque? 
My dear, I assure you I shall never trouble to enquire 



154 IRIS 

whether you had recourse to this paltry Httle fund at 

my bank or not. [Bitterly.] So, in this instance, you 

will be less cruel to me than to yourself. 



Iris. 

[Weakly.] You are hurt. I am always paining you; 
it seems to be my special misfortune. 

Maldonado. 

Pish! throw the thing into your writing-case and 
forget it. 

\He passes her and throws the cheque-hook 
upon the zvriting-table. 



Iris. 

I would prefer that the book were not even left 
with me, Maldo. 

Maldonado. 

[Sarcastically.] Oh, pray! Won't you at least do 
me the favour of burning it? May I not beg that 
indulgence of you? 

Iris. 
[In distress.] Certainly, I'll destroy it. 



IRIS 155 

Maldonado. 

[With elaborate politeness.] My most profound 
acknowledgments ! 

Iris. 

[Taking his hand.] Ah, don't, don't! [Coaxingly.] 
In a day or two I will write you a letter — a letter 

Maldonado. 

For small mercies ! 

Iris. 

Oh, why be angry with me? What have I done? 
Maldo! Maldo! Maldo! 

Maldonado. 

[Looking into her eyes.] It is impossible to be cross 
with you for more than a moment. There ! I forgive 
you. 

Iris. 

Ah! 

Maldonado. 
This — and the rest. Adieu ! 



156 IRIS 

Iris. 
Adieu ! 

[He kisses her hands, rather too warmly. She 
goes to the door and pulls the hell-rope, 

Maldonado. 
Let me see — you transfer yourself to Varese ? 

Iris. 
Next month. I think. 

Maldonado. 

[Lightly hut with intention.'] Is Varese pleasant in 
November, I wonder? 

Iris. 
[Unconsciously.'] Very, they tell me. 

Maldonado. 

Tsch ! I fear I mustn't indulge myself in another 
holiday yet awhile. 

Iris. 

[As hefore.] No? You rich men work like slaves, 
Maldo. 

Maldonado. 

Ha! what else is there in life? 

[He pauses a little longer, waiting for some 
further response from her. Receiving none, 
he looks at his watch again hurriedly. 



IRIS 157 

Maldqnado. 
I must be off. Good-bye. 

Iris. 

[Raising her head.] Good-bye, Maldo. 

[He goes out. At the same moment Aurea 
appears outside the further zvindow and, 
after looking into the room, raps upon the 
window-pane. 

Iris. 

[Turning.] Ah! [Opening the window.] Aurea! 

Aurea. 

Good morning ! here's a day ! 

Iris. 

Come in. 

[Aurea, zvho carries an umbrella, enters, 
brightly and eagerly. 

Iris. 

[Closing the windozv.] What brings you out into the 
rain? [Patting her cheeks.] To water the roses? 

Aurea. 

As we go to-rnorrow, I thought I might not have 
another opportunity of seeing you alone. You have 
always been so sweet to me 

Iris. 
[Kissing her.] Ah \ 



158 IRIS 



AUREA. 



Aunt Fanny sajs I am to be most careful to avoid 
sad subjects when I meet you, and to be bright and 
cheerful. 



She is right. 



Iris. 



AuREA. 



So I've come to talk solely about myself. I want 
you to be the first — ^the very first — ^to hear my news. 

Iris. 
News ? 

AuREA. 

[In a voice full of mystery.] It's a dead secret. I 
shan't breathe a word of it to aunt until the business 
is absolutely settled. 

Iris. 

Business ? I'm waiting. 

AuREA. 

[Laughing gleefully.] Ha, ha, ha! Let me get rid 
of my umbrella. [Resting her umbrella against the ta- 
ble on the right and returning to Iris with an air of 
importance.] Now then ! What do you think, dear Mrs. 
Bellamy ! I've a prospect of being able to make 
mj'Self independent of my relations. 

Iris. 
Really! 

AuREA. 

Yes, positively. You know, while Aunt Fanny 
could afford to have me with her, mj' position was 



IRIS 159 

just endurable. But now — well, I can't expect to find 
the world full of Aunt Fannies, can I? 

Iris. 
Tell me 

A UREA. 

It's all through Miss Pinsent. 

Iris. 
Kate Pinsent? 

Aurea. 

[Nodding.] Whom I met at your house at Kensing- 
ton. You remember your lovely dinner-party? 

Iris. 
[Looking azijay.] Perfectly. 

Aurea. 

We struck up a great friendship that night, Miss 
Pinsent and I. I wrote to her when we first heard 
of aunt's reverse, mentioning how I was situated. 
She's a dear ! 

Iris. 

[Turning from Aurea.] Yes. I am afraid I didn't 
treat her very considerately. 

Aurea. 

I'm certain you did ; you do everybody. She 
adores you; so does everybody. [In an outburst.] We 
are going into business ! 

Iris. 
You and Kate ! 



i6o IRIS 



AUREA. 



That is, she is going into business, if she can over- 
come initial difficulties, and I am to be allowed to 
join her. [Dropping upon the settee in the centre.] Isn't 
it exciting? 

Iris. 

You enterprising little woman ! [Advancing to her.] 
Difficulties? What difficulties? 

AuREA. 

She has to find three or four hundred pounds, to 
decorate and fit up the rooms. [With enjoyment.] The 
rooms ! Four rooms ; two on the first floor, and two 
on the second, where the girls will work 

Iris. 

[Standing facing Aurea and looking down upon 
her.] But Kate has money. 

Aurea. 

[Shaking her head.] No. And her mother to main- 
tain ! Isn't it rough? 

Iris. 

[Insistently.] She saved money; she saved it with 
me — in my service. I know it. 

Aurea. 
Oh, yes — ^but that went. 

Iris. 
Went ? 



IRIS i6i 

AUREA. 

Mr. Kane had it. 

Iris. 
[Sitting beside Aurea.] Kane! 

AuREA. 

Poor girl ! she used to talk to him when he came 

to your house 

Iris. 
Of course. 

Aurea. 

And one day she asked him to invest her savings 
for her. 

Iris. 
Gone ! 

Aurea. 

[Nodding.] Dreadfully hard lines! But she's 
awfully dogged, and if she can only induce somebody 
to stand by her over this undertaking 

Iris. 

Poor Kate ! Fancy the avalanche crushing her 
too ! A nice creature. 

Aurea. 

I'm certain she'll manage it somehow ; she swears 
she'll move heaven and earth before she owns beat. 

Iris. 

[Thoughtfully, zvith knit brows.] That's all very 
well. If she doesn't — if she can't ? 



n 



162 IRIS 



AUREA. 



Oh, don't suggest that, Mrs. Bellamy! don't, don't 
suggest that ! 

[Iris 7'ises and slowly walks towards the writ- 
ing-table, zvhile AuREA, not following her 
movements, rattles on emphatically. 

AuREA. 

Surely, surely there are plenty of generous, wealthy 
people who will lend a helping hand to a woman. 
Kate has tried for another situation as companion, 
such as she held with you, and has failed. The 
salaries offered are impossible ; there's but one Mrs. 
Bellamy on earth, she says — all the rest are in heaven. 
Oh, it would be too cruel if this chance escaped her — 
cruel on her and on me. Me ! I believe I shall break 
my heart if it falls through. I think of nothing else, 
dream of nothing else — talk of nothing else, you'll 

say 

[Iris is now seated, quite composedly, before 
the writing-table, drawing a cheque in Mal- 
DONADo's cheque-book. 



Iris. 
Hush ! hush ! I'm writing. 

AuREA. 

[Rising.] I beg your pardon, dear Mrs. Bellamy. 

[Iris carefully extracts the cheque from the 
book and blots it, and, taking an envelope 
from the table, rises and comes to Aurea. 



IRIS 163 

Iris. 

[Folding the cheque.] Aurea, this little gift will put 
an end to those initial difficulties you speak of. Send 
it to your friend at once, with my good wishes. 

Aurea. 

[Staring at the cheque as Iris encloses it in the 
envelope. ] Oh ! 

Iris. 

[Giving the envelope to Aurea.] Say that I am 
sincerely sorry I dismissed her so unkindly — so 
abruptly. 

Aurea. 

[Breathlessly,] Mrs. Bellamy — dear Mrs. Bellamy 
— you — you mustn't attempt to do this for us ! 

Iris. 

It delights me to render this service — the last, per- 
haps, I shall ever render anybody. 

Aurea. 
But how — how can you ? 

Iris. 

[Looking down.] I — I have unexpectedly come into 
possession of a — a trifling — [uneasily] Er — not a 
word, please, to your aunt. 

Aurea. 
N — no. 



i64 IRIS 

Iris. 

And, Aurea — mind ! — you must put Kate Pinsent 
upon her honour — her word of honour — never to let 

a soul know 

[The man-servant enters at the door. 

Man-servant. 
The carriage is here, ma'am. 

Iris. 

[To Aurea.] Shall I give you a lift as far as the 
Belle Vue? 

Aurea. 

[In a low voice.] Aunt might wonder and put awk- 
ward questions. 

Iris. 

[With a glance of assent.] I am to see you both at 
Tremezzo this afternoon? 

Aurea. 
Yes. 

Iris. 

[To the servant.] Come back for my bag when you 
have let Miss Vyse out. 

Man-servant. 
Yes, ma'am 

Aurea. 

[Throwing her arms round Iris's neck.] Oh! oh! 
[She snatches up her umbrella and runs away. 
The servant goes after her. With a troubled^ 



IRIS 165 

half-guilty look, Iris attires herself in her 
hat and cape; after which, carrying her 
gloves, she returns to her dressing-hag. 
Glancing round the room, to assure herself 
that she has collected all her small personal 
belongings, her eyes rest on the cheque-hook 
which lies open on the writing-tahle. She 
contemplates it for a time, a gradually in- 
creasing fear shozving itself in her face. 
Ultimately she walks slowly to the tahle and 
picks up the hook. She is fingering it in 
an uncertain, frightened way when the 
servant returns. 

Man-servant. 

[Standing over the hag.] Is there anything more, 
ma'am— — ? 

[She hesitates, helplessly; then, hecoming con- 
scious that she is heing stared at, she 
advances, drops the hook into the hag, and 
passes out. The man shuts the hag, and is 
following her as the curtain falls. 

END OF THE THIRD ACT. 



THE FOURTH ACT. 

The scene represents a room in a Flat at the West End 
of London. The decorations are in delicate tints 
of pink and green touched with silver, and the 
furniture is correspondingly light and dainty. 
The fireplace, where a lire is burning, is in the 
centre of the wall furthest from the spectator. On 
one side of the fireplace — the left — is a door admit- 
ting to a bedroom; on the other side a door opening 
from the hall. A silken portiere hangs over the 
bedroom door. In the zvall on the right there is a 
deep recess in which is fitted a luxurious divan, 
and beyond this recess is a third door leading to 
another apartment. On the left-hand side of the 
room a bow window, provided with cushioned 
seats, gives a view of the houses on the opposite 
side of the street. A writing-table, chair, and 
waste-paper basket stand near the windoiv; on 
either side of the -fireplace is an armchair ; and in 
the centre of the room there is a circular table 
on zvhich breakfast is laid tastefully for one per- 
son. On the left of the breakfast-table is a chair, 
and on the right a settee zvith a little table behind 
it. Other articles of furniture, all pretty and 
fragile, are arranged about the room. 



IRIS 167 

The light is that of a clear morning in winter. 
[Iris — dressed in a handsome morning-robe — 
is seated at tJie table in the centre, a book 
propped-up before her, neglecting her break- 
fast. Her beauty has matured — become 
severer, more majestic; and her face has 
somewhat hardened. A grey lock, however, 
upon her brow, from which the hair is now 
taken back, gives a softening note. The 
door on the right of the -fireplace — the 
door admitting from the hall — opens, and 
Maldonado enters with the air of a man 
who is thoroughly at home. He is without 
his hat but is still gloved. He comes to the 
right of the table and looks down upon 
her, 

Maldonado. 
Morning. 

[She barely raises her eyes from her book. 
With a shrug, he seats himself in the chair 
on the right of the fireplace and pulls off 
his gloves. 

Maldonado. 

Devilish cold. [A pause.] Your breakfast gets 
later and later. The hours you waste ! 

Iris. 

[Mechanically stirring her tea.] I have nothing to 
do. 

Maldonado. 
You do nothing. 

[Having taken a cigarette from his case, he 



i68 IRIS 

searches for matches upon the mantel- 
piece. Not Ending them, he goes to the zvri- 
ting-tahle. There he comes upon a match- 
stand and lights his cigarette. 

Maldonado. 

[At the writing-table.] The matches are never in the 
same place two days running. 

Iris. 
[Icily.] Frederick 

Maldonado. 
Eh? 

Iris. 

I wish you would make it a practice to send your 
name in, instead of using a latch-key. 

Maldonado. 
Why? 

Iris. 

It would appear a little more respectful to me in 
the eyes of the servants, would it not? It's of no 
consequence. 

[After some hesitation, he produces a bunch of 
keys and removes from it a latch-key. 
Weighing the key in his hand meditatively, 
he walks towards the settee; then he turns 
and tosses the key upon the table. 

Iris. 

Thanks. 



IRIS 169 

Maldonado. 

[Sitting'upon the settee.] Anything to satisfy you, 
my dear. 

[She picks up the key and, 7'ising, drops it into 
a vase which stands upon the mantelpiece. 
The key strikes the bottom of the vase with 
a sharp sound. Having done this she re- 
sumes her seat and sips her tea. 

Maldonado. 

[Examining his nails.] I particularly hoped to find 
you in an agreeable humour this morning. I wonder 
whether I can put you in one. Don't read. [She 
lays her book aside.] Iris. 



Well? 



Iris. 



Maldonado. 



I was turning matters over in my mind last week 
in Paris. Honestly, I'm no more content with the 
present condition of affairs than you are. 

Iris. 

Than I am? I'm not aware that I have expressed 
any special discontent. 

Maldonado. 

[With a short laugh.] Ha! Upon my soul, you 
have the knack of freezing a man. 

Iris. 
What is it you have to propose, Frederick? 



170 IRIS 

Maldonado. 

[Leaning forward, his elbozvs on his knees.] Iris, 
I want to invite you to come round the corner — to 
Mount Street. 

Iris. 
To Mount Street ? 

Maldonado. 

To my house — in a settled position. 

Iris. 
[Indifferently.] Oh? 

Maldonado. 

Do you remember our talk of two years ago last 
summer, on the occasion of that dinner-party at your 
place, when you declared your willingness to do your 
duty as my wife, as mistress of my establishment, 
squarely and faithfully. You sold me then — a sub- 
ject we won't enlarge on. Well, there hangs the old 
Velasquez still, and the Raphael, and the Murillo, and 
once more I offer to frame you gorgeously and to 
place you along with them ; making you permanently 
— what was my phrase? — ''mine to gaze at, mine to 
keep from others." What d'you say? 

Iris. 
[After a pause.] Why nowf 



Why now? 
Yes; why now? 



Maldonado. 
Iris. 



IRIS 171 

Maldonado. 

I — I've treated you a bit roughly, you mean? 

[She rises, with an eloquent gesture, and goes 
to the jchair on the left of the -fireplace, 
where she sits. 

Maldonado. 

Oh, I own up. I intended to have my revenge, if 
I could get; and I've had it. Yes, I meant it. 

Iris. 
[Writhing.] Oh! 

Maldonado. 

I repeat, I own up. I make a clean breast of it, 

you see — as an inducement to you to wipe the slate. 

Iris. 

It was deliberate, then, from the very first — cruelly 
deliberate ? 

Maldonado. 

[With a nod.] I'll even beg pardon, if it would 
please you. 

Iris. 

Your arrival at Cadenabbia, from Aix ? 

Maldonado. 

I'd heard you were travelling with that pup-dog at 
your heels 

Iris. 

Of whom are you speaking? 



172 IRIS 

Maldonado. 

Sorry — Trenwith. And I wanted to be sure; I 
couldn't credit it. You ! To throw me over when Fd 
won you honourably — shove me aside, after my long 
waiting, at the moment of my success, for a lover ! It 
kept me awake ; I wasn't sleeping. That brought me 
to Cadenabbia. 

Iris. 

[Musingly.] I've often wondered. 

Maldonado. 

Ha! I believe I came by the same train that carried 
the newspapers containing the account of Kane's 
bolting. There was an opening at once 

Iris. 
To play the friend, the consoling friend — ah! 

Maldonado. 
[After a pause, moodily.] Anything more? 

Iris. 

What would you have done if events had not shaped 
themselves in your favour — if Mr. Trenwith and I 
had not parted? 

Maldonado. 

I don't know — frankly. It gives me the shivers 
sometimes — the mere conjecture. There were days 
at Aix when I felt mad. 

Iris. 
[With a long-drazvn sigh.] Ah — h — h! 



IL IS 173 

MALWrNADO. 

Eh? 

Iris. 

I wish you had been merciful and had taken me out 
cii to the lake ar^d drowned me. 

Maldonado. 
Ugh! 

Iris. 

That cheque-book — you were sure Fd avail myself 
of it? 

Maldonado. 

I w?.s pretty certain you couldn't drag on for long 
upon a few pounds a week. You couldn't. 

Iris. 
[Satiric ally. '[ How mad you were! 

Maldonado. 

And as your careering-about abroad, with a young 
gentleman in attendance, had alienated the friends who 
could have aided you, I calculated the chances were all 
my way. 

Iris. 

The chances of your being able to destroy me 
utterly 

Maldonado. 

The chances of crying quits with Trenwith. 

Iris. 
[Clenching her hands.] Oh, don't — don't ! 



174 IRIS 

Maldonado. 

[After another pause.] Anything more? 

[She is sile}it. He rises and goes to the fire- 
place, ivhere he stands, his back to the Hre, 
contemplating her. 

Maldonado. 

You're not over keen about my suggestion, 
apparently. 

Iris. 
I! 

Maldonado. 

I fancied you'd be glad. Upon my soul, I imagined 
you'd be rather — gratified. 

Iris. 

[Rising and standing beside him, composedly.] I am 
sorry if you are disappointed. I'm afraid I've no 
longer the capacity for being gratified at anything. 
I haven't it ; it's gone. 

Maldonado. 

It's odd that, somehow, whenever the question of 
marriage has arisen betw^een us, you've always con- 
trived to make me look an ass in my own eyes. 

Iris. 
[Languidly.] Need you regard it in that way? 

Maldonado. 
Look here. Iris ! you must at least see that I desire 



IRIS 175 

to make it up to you — desire to make amends. Surely 
that flatters you, if ever so slightly. You used the 
word "respect" a minute ago. Does this look as if I 
entertained no respect for you? [Betzceen his teeth.] 
I'm d I mean, I can't understand you. 

Iris. 
Amends? What amends can you make me? 

Maldonado. 
Isn't marriage amends? 

Iris. 

[Trifling with the flowers on the breakfast-table.] It's 

loo late, I tell you. I'm down, beyond recovery. I've 

lost heart. I no longer care. I'm shunned like 

poison 

Maldonado. 

[Behind her shoulder.] People cut you? You 
mustn't blame me wholly for that. 

Iris. 

I don't. I'm not unfair. And it isn't that which 
hurts me most even now. [Closing her eyes.] But to 

shun one's self — to cut one's self ! No, no; it's 

all over with me — everything's over. Marriage ! a 
farce ! 

[She passes him and walks azvay to the head of 
the settee. He follows her. 

Maldonado. 

At any rate, in talking in this fashion, you take 
only one point of view. There's another. 



176 IRIS 

Iris. 

Yours? Oh, yes, there's your point of view. But 
why on earth should you wish to marry mef 

Maldoxado. 
Is it a novel wish on my part? 

Iris. 

No; but bruised fruit 

Maldoxado. 

[Seising her hands.] Can't you be less bitter? 
Listen to me ! listen to me ! 

Iris. 

[Freeing herself and leaning against the head of the 
settee, facing him.] I am doing so. 

Maldoxado. 

You'll laugh at me — no, that's not your way; you'll 
stab me with those steel-grey eyes of yours, tighten 
your lips till the sight of their thin red line stings 
me like whip-cord. All the same, you've got to hear 
it — I love you. I love you more than ever, my dear. 
What's in you? You're extraordinary. By the 
common rule of life I ought to be chafing to be rid of 
you; the fizz should have gone entirely out of what 
remains of the liquor by this time. But it's not so. 
I say it's wonderful, considering what's behind us, 
that \\t should stand here as we do — I again entreat- 
ing you to be my wife, still entreating you, as I did 
two years back, for a soft word, a spark of warmth, 



IRIS 177 

just a little tenderness. [Gripping her shoulders and 
looking into her face so closely that she shrinks back.] 
I shall never be able to do without you, Iris ; - you 
grow on a man — never be able to spare you. The 
idea of your wanting to break away from me one day 
is insupportable. What did I ask you to call me, that 
night in Kensington — Beloved ? Fool ! And yet 
this morning, notwithstanding all that has passed 
since then, I'd give half of everything I have in the 
world if you'd speak that word. I will give it; I lay 
it at your feet. Iris ! [Drawing her to him.] Iris ! 
you devil in marble ! 

[There is a silence between them for a moment 
or tzvo, neither stirring. Then she gently 
disengages herself and moves away to the 
writing-table. 

Maldonado. 
[Following her with his eyes.] Well ? 

Iris. 
I — I will think about it. 

Maldonado. 

[Passing his hand across his brow.] Think about it 

? Think about it! [Going tozvards her.] Oh, 

yes. [Suddenly.] You haven't heard from that fellow 
lately, have you? 

Iris. 
Mr. Trenwith? 

Maldonado. 
Mister Trenwith. 



178 IRIS 

Iris. 
No. 

Maldonado. 

Nor written to him? [She shakes her head.] When 
did you last write? 

Iris. 
It doesn't matter. 

Maldonado. 
[Fiercely.] When? 

Iris. 

[Weakly.] Four months ago — or five. [Sitting in the 
chair by the writing-table.] I forget exactly. 

• Maldonado. 
And he? • 

Iris. 

He continued his letters for a time, reproaching me 
for forgetting him. They have ceased — ceased. 

Maldonado. 
You are sure? 

Iris. 
Sure? Quite sure. 

[She breaks dozvn and cries. He watches her 
for a while, then turns from her and sits at 
the breakfast-table. 

Maldonado. 

[Digging a fork into the table-cloth viciously.] Will 
you come to a theatre to-night? 



^ 



IRIS 179 

Iris. 

[Wiping her eyes.] If you wish it. 

Maldonado. 

Dine somewhere beforehand? 

Iris. 
As you please. 

Maldonado. 
Where? 

Iris. 
Anywhere. 

Maldonado. 

What theatre? [A pause] What theatre? 

[There are some unopened newspapers upon the 
little table behind the settee. She crosses 
over to the table and picks up one of them. 
She is unfolding it zvhen he comes to her. 

Maldonado. 

[At her side.] How long will it take you to make 
up your mind ? 

Iris. 

[Dully.] About the theatre? 

Maldonado. 

No, no; about our marriage. 



i8o IRIS 



Iris. 



A week; let me have a week. [Sifting upon the 
settee.] There can be no necessity for haste. 

Maldonado. 

[Discontentedly.] A week? Pish! [Leaning against 
the break fast-table.] However, we'll say a week. 

Iris. 

[Gazing listlessly before her, the paper falling to the 
■door.] If we do marry, you must promise not to 
sist upon my continuing to live in England. 



m- 



Maldoxado. 
Why? 

Iris. 

There would be a revival of interest in me, as your 
wife. Heaps of those who have dropped me, half- 
forgotten me — who w^ouldn't touch me, as I am, with 
gloves on — would rally round me because of your 
wealth. I couldn't suffer that. 

Maldonado. 
I shouldn't ask you to. 

Iris. 

What ! you and I alone, then, in that great house 
in Mount Street ! No, no ; not England, if we 
marry. 

Maldoxado. 

All right. So be it. [With a shrug.] We can easily 



IRIS i8i 

take down the Velasquez and hang him elsewhere. 
After all, England is a paradise only for the puritan 
and the hypocrite. [His spirits rising.] Ha, ha ! 
Farewell, England ! Land of lean women and smug 
men, of the drooping eyelid and the sanctimonious 
drawl ! Land of money- worship, of cant and Phari- 
saism, of false sentiment and namby-pamby ideals — 
in every department of life, the suburb of the universe ! 
Ha, ha, ha! England, farewell! [Advancing to her.] 
Paris? 

Iris. 

The women there are so terrible — the women who 
would claim equality with me. 

Maldonado. 
One must live somewhere. 

Iris. 
[Wearily.] That's it; that's it. 

Maldonado. 

And yet, why reside anywhere? Who so at home 
everywhere as the homeless rich? We'll be cosmo- 
politans of the first order, shall we? [Bending over 
her.] Why, I'd carry Velasquez and his companions 
on my back, from city to city, if you'd walk beside me 
with your hand in mine. [Holding out his hand.] Ah, 
sweetest ! 

Iris. 

[Looking up at him, with an expressionless face, and 
laying her hand in his.] You are not all bad, Maldo. 

[There is a knock at the door and Iris rises. 



i82 IRIS 

They separate; she goes to the writing-table, 
he to the -fireplace. 

Iris. 

Come! [A woman-servant enters, from the hall. 

Servant. 
Mr. Harrington. 

Iris. 

[Seated at the writing-table.'] I'll see him. 

[The servant unthdraws, closing the door. 

Maldoxado. 

[With a ivry face.] Tsch ! you don't mind being 
bored. He's become too sour and grumpy for words, 
this chap. You know they've kicked him out of the 
secretaryship of that club? How the devil he 

lives ! 

[The servant returns, shozving in Croker 
Harrington. Croker has lost his smart- 
ness — is almost shabby — and has aged out 
of proportion to the time that has elapsed. 
He stands regarding Maldonado zvith an 
expression approaching a scowl. The ser- 
vant retires. 

Maldonado. 

[With a nod.] Good morning. 

Croker. 
Good morning. 



IRIS 183 

[He comes to Iris and shakes hands with her 
silently. 

Maldonado. 

[Leaving the fire.] You were at the wedding yester- 
day, I suppose, my dear Croker? 

Croker. 
[Surlily.] Yes. 

Maldonado. 
And you come fully charged with all the delightful 
details, eh? 

Iris. 
I hope so. 

Maldonado. 

Miss Sylvain — a tolerably mature bride. I sent 
her a wedding present — which she had the impudence 
to return. [To Iris, as he moves towards the door on 
the 7'ight.] May I write two or three letters here, while 
you chat to our friend? 

Iris. 

Why do you ask me? 

Maldonado. 

[At the door.] Do decide about that theatre. 

[He goes, leaving the door ajar. Iris crosses 
over to the door and peeps into the adjoin- 
ing room. 

Iris. 

[Closing the door softly.] He has gone into the 
further room. We can talk freely. [She motions 



i84 IRIS 

Croker to sit upon the settee; he obeys her. Then she 
brings the chair from the left of the breakfast-table and 
sits, facing him eagerly.] How did she look? 



Well. 




Croker. 


Sweet? 




Iris. 


[Nodding.'] 


Wm, 


Croker. 



Iris. 
The bridesmaids — were there many? 

Croker. 
Four. 

Iris. 
Four? 

Croker. 
Evelyn Littledale 

Iris. 
Of course. 

Croker. 
Margot Cowley 

Iris. 
She! 

Croker. 
Her niece 

Iris. 
Aurea? Oh, yes— the girl I was rather fond of. 



IRIS l8s 

Croker. 
And a sister of the bridegroom. 

Iris. 

Was the church well-filled? The Wynnings — were 
they present? The Chad wicks? the Saddingtons? 
the Vanes? the Glenne-Smiths? [He nods in response 
to each inquiry.] Oh, I knew them all! [She weeps 
again, then recovers herself and dries her eyes.] Well! 
exit Fanny ! I passed her, the other day, in Davies 
Street. I saw her first in the distance, and put back 
my veil so that she should notice my white lock. 
Sorrow and remorse have their egotism, as ease and 
joy have, and I am proud of my grey hair. But she 
purposely kept her eyes down. 

Croker. 
[Brusquely.] Perhaps — in time 



Iris. 

Never — with a husband. That hope's gone. YouVe 
the last. And you've altered towards me. 



Croker. 
[Sternly.] Altered! What do you expect? 

Iris. 

[With her habitual pathetic little twist of her mouth.'] 
No, I must have disappointed you sadly. Do you 
recollect describing to me once, in the Kensington 



i86 IRIS 

days, your ideal of woman ? It was at the time you 
were 

Croker. 
Perfectly. 

Iris. 

You said you asked nothing more of a woman — 
what ? 

Croker. 

Than that she should be beautiful to the eye and 
gentle to the ear; that her face should brighten when 
I entered, her hand linger in mine when I departed ; 
that she should never allow me to hear her speak 
slightingly of any honest man, thereby assuring me 
she indulged in no contemptuous criticism of me when 
I was out of her company ; that she should be bounti- 
ful to the poor, unafraid of the sick and unsightly, 
fond of dumb animals and strange children, and tear- 
ful in the presence of fine pictures and at the sound 
of rich music. 

Iris. 
And I inspired that ! 



You did. 



Croker. 



Iris. 



[With a sigh.'] How vain I felt! And yet — by 
chance, I suppose — never anticipating ! — you left out 
something — something essential — that goes to the 
making of a perfect woman? 

Croker. 
To the making of a good woman— yes. 



IRIS 187 

Iris. 

[Wincing.'] Sssh! sssh! 

{Bending forward, she lays her head upon his 
knees. So she remains for a few moments, 
both silent, he looking dozvn upon her, 

Croker. 

[In a low voice.] Iris — [She sohs.] There is one 
other item of news I have to give you — not connected 
with Fanny's wedding 

Iris. 
[Inarticulately.] Yes? 

Croker. 
You will have no difficulty in guessing it, I fancy. 

Iris. 
Eh? 

Croker. 

The inevitable has happened. I've always warned 
you. 

[She raises her head slowly and stares at him. 
Reading his news in his face, she rises. 

Iris. 
Back!- 

[He anszvers her with his eyes. She sways and 
he catches her by the arm and assists her to 
the settee. 



i88 IRIS 

Croker. 

It occurred late last night. I turned into a little 
restaurant in Soho — an old resort of his, it appears — 
for my supper. He came in; we stared at one another 
for a moment — then he rushed at me. His ship had 
docked at Liverpool earlier in the day and he had just 
driven from Euston. I pretended that I had finished 
eating, and, after a brief talk, got away. 



Iris. 
[Her eyes closed.] How does he bear it? 

Croker. 

He's mystified ; believes some one has come between 
you and him ; and is here to find out the facts. 

[She opens her eyes and looks at him dully; 
then she suddenly sits upright. 

Iris. 
He — he doesn't know, then? 

Croker. 

No. [She struggles to her feet.] And I was careful 
that he should extract nothing from me. 

Iris. 

He has not heard — not heard ! 

[She moves about the room in an agitated, 
aimless "way, sitting in one place only to 
rise immediately and transfer herself to 



IRIS 189 

another, and tittering brief, half -articulate 
comments as Croker proceeds. 

Croker. 

I allowed him to understand that your friendship 
for me had somewhat cooled 

Iris. 

Cooled ? 

Croker. 

In order that he shouldn't be puzzled by my unusual 
ignorance concerning you. 

Iris. 
Ah, yes. 

Croker. 

"That's it, Harrington !" he said, *'she is being 
drawn away from her friends. By whom?" 

Iris. 
Ah! 

Croker. 

He wanted information, naturally, as to your 
whereabouts. You had returned to London, I told 
him, but — how stupid of me ! — I couldn't recall the 
name of the street in which you are lodging. Ha ! 

Iris. 
Well? 

Croker. 

He has gone to an hotel in Villiers Street. I have 



iQO IRIS 

undertaken to hunt-up your address [referring to his 
zvatcJi] and to let him have it during the morning. 

Iris. 
[Pausing, confusedly.] And — and vill you? 

Croker. 

Not without your authority to do so. My object 
was simply to stop him, for a few hours, from busying 
himself in making enquiries 

Iris. 
[Nodding, faintly.] Enquiries 

Croker. 

Thinking you might wish to be before others with 
your story. 

Iris. 

[Coming fo him and grasping his hands.] Ah! 
ah! ah! 

Croker. 

[Grimly.] In the meantime he is occupied feverishly 
as his tailors and haberdashers, I expect. 

Iris. 

What shall I do, Croker? What course shall I 
adopt? Quick! We shall be interrupted directly. 
Oh, help me, please! 



IRIS 191 

Croker. 

[Harshly.] Excuse me; the rest is with you. I 
regret I don't feel able to advise you. 

[He turns from her and walks away to the 
fireplace, where he stands looking into the 
fire. 

Iris. 

[Weakly.] Ah, that's unkind — unkind ! 

[She drops into the chair before the writing- 
table and sits for a time, her elbows on the 
table, tightly holding her brows. Then she 
seizes a pen and writes rapidly upon a sheet 
of note-paper. 

Iris. 

[While she writes.] Croker — Croker 

. [He returns to her slowly. When she has 
finished her note, she scrawls a name upon 
an envelope and rises. Croker is at her 
side; she holds the note before him. 

Croker. 

[As he reads it.] You will see him to-night at nine 

o'clock 

Iris. 
Yes. 

Croker. 
If he can come to you with pity in his heart. 

Iris. 

[Folding the note with trembling hands.] You will 
take this to him? 



192 IRIS 

Croker. 
[Between his teeth.] I ! Oh, yes. 

Iris. 
[Enclosing the note.] At once — at once 

Croker. 
Ho, certainly ! at once. 

Iris. 

[Looking at him in surprise.] Croker! 

Croker. 

Having lied for you plentifully to one [with a glance 
in Maldonado's direction] I am now employed to 
deceive the other. Have you any further degradation 
for me? How much lower is my insane devotion to 
bring me ? — tell me that ! tell me that ! 

Iris. 
Dear friend ! 

Croker. 

Degradation ! yes. A hanger-on ! a complacent 
hanger-on ! And to-day the common go-between ! 
Ah, you have crushed the life, the spirit, the manhood 
out of me ! 

Iris. 
Oh! 



IRIS 193 

Croker. 

[Holding out his hand for the letter.'] But give it to 
me. 

Iris. 
[After a pause.] No; I'll not. 

Croker. 

Come ! I daresay I'm brutal. And, perhaps, a 
little jealous! Jealous! There! what an admission! 
what a depth for a man to touch! [Still holding out 
his hand.] Come, give it to me. [Meekly.] This is 
the first time I've protested, at any rate. 

Irjs. 

You are right. I ought not to have asked you — 
[tearing up the note.] I — I beg your pardon. 

[She throzvs the pieces into the waste-paper 
basket and, passing Croker, seats herself 
upon the settee. He sinks into the cJiair 
by the writing-table, burying his head in his 
hands. 

Iris. 

[Staring at the carpet.] Besides, it would be a 
dreadful confession to make to him personally — [zi'itji 
a look, under her brozvs, round the room] here, too. 
You haven't told me the name of the hotel — in Villiers 
Street, did you say? I'll do what you urged me to 
do at first ; I'll endeavour to put it all on paper — to 

put everything on paper 

[A door slams in the distance. 



194 IRI^ 

Croker. 
[Raising his head.] Maldonado- 



[She collects herself and picks up the news- 
paper. 

Croker. 

[Rising and going over to her quickly — speaking in 
low, hurried tones.] Iris, forget my boorishness. He 
shall be with you to-night at nine. 

[She grasps at his arm as he leaves her. He 
is at the door leading to the hall when 
Maldonado returns carrying some freshly- 
written letters. 

Maldonado. 
[To Croker.] Hullo! you going? 

Croker. 
Yes. 

Maldonado. 
Ta-ta ! 

[Croker disappears, closing the door behind 
him. 

Maldonado. 

[At the fireplace.] Where is he off to, in such a 
hurry — the workhouse? There's a man who knew half 
London ; now h^ hasn't a friend in the world, except- 
ing yourself. 

Iris. 

[Mutteringly.] Except myself. 



IRIS 195 

Maldonado. 

Eh? [Advancing to her.] Still hunting for that 
theatre ? 

Iris. 
Theatre ? 

Maldonado. 
The theatre — to-night 

Iris. 
[With a catch in her breath.] To-night ? 

Maldonado. 
Didn't we arrange ? Aren't you well, my dear? 

Iris. 

[Rising — speaking hesitatingly and painfully.] Maldo 
— the — the week that I am to be allowed — the week 

Maldonado. 
Week ? 

Iris. 

The week in which to consider your — your pro- 
posal 

Maldonado. 
Oh, yes. 

Iris. 

I wish you would leave me entirely alone in the mean- 
while — net see me — not come near me 



196 • IRIS 

Maldonado. 

[His eyes blaj:ing.] Have you been consulting Har- 
rington ? 

Iris. 

No. No, no. 

Maldonado. 
Haven't you? 

Iris. 

I have not mentioned the matter to him — not given 
him a hint 

Maldonado. 

[After a pause.] What, are you afraid that my fas- 
cinating presence would unduly influence your decision? 
[She is silent, her hands tzvitching at the news- 
paper. There is a further pause. 

Maldonado. 

Oh, very well. You shall have a perfectly quiet time, 
if you desire it. I shall go down, then, this afternoon 
to Rubenstein's, at Bream Park, for a few days. 

Iris. 
Th — thanks. Thanks. 

[She walks away to the divan and throzvs her- 
self upon it, settling herself in its cushions, 
with her hack towards him, and making a 
show of reading the newspaper. 

Maldonado. 
Have you any postage-stamps? 



IRIS 197 

Iris. 

[As she arranges herself upon the divan.] You will 
find them in my stamp-box. 

[He seats himself at the writing-table, dis- 
covers the stamp-box, and proceeds to aMx 
stamps to his letters. While he is thus oc- 
cupied, his eye is attracted by the zvriting 
upon certain scraps of paper lying near the 
zvaste-paper basket. They are fragments of 
Irises note — some of which have fallen into 
the basket, others upon the floor. He picks 
up two or three of these pieces and ex- 
amines them. , Then he turns his head 
sharply and looks at Iris. Seeing that she 
is not observing him, he hurriedly collects 
the pieces remaining upon the floor and also 
those in the basket. Humming an air to 
disguise his proceedings, he hastily fits the 
scraps together upon the table ; after which 
he sweeps them into a heap and thrusts them 
into his waistcoat-pocket. 

Maldonado. 
[Rising.] Papers are dull this morning? 



Very. 



Iris. 

[Resuming his humming, he puts his letters 
away in the tail of his coat and moi'cs 
stealthily towards the mantelpiece. There 
he takes down a vase, shakes it against Jiis 
ear, and replaces it. He repeats the process 
with another vase, this time zvith success; 



IRIS 

whereupon, Urst pulling up his coat-sleeve 
and shirt-cuff, he inserts his hand and arm 
into the vase and regains possession of his 
latch-key. Pocketing the key, he breaks oif 
from his singing and, zvith an evil look upon 
his face, comes to Iris. 

Maldonado. 
This day week? 

Iris. 

[Giving him a hand without turning.] Yes. 

{He leaves her as the curtain falls. 

END OF THE FOURTH ACT. 



THE FIFTH ACT 



The scene is unchanged. It is night-time. The electric 
light, softened by shades of rose-coloured silk, dif- 
fuses a warm glow over the room. 

[The room is empty. There is a knock at the 
door on the right of the fireplace. The 
knock is repeated; then the door is opened 
and the woman-servant enters. Finding 
nobody, she goes to the door on the left and, 
drawing the portiere aside, knocks at that 
door gently. Having knocked, she drops 
the portiere and, retreating a few steps, 
waits. Presently a hand is seen holding the 
portiere and Iris's voice is heard. 

Iris. 

[Very faintly.] Yes? 

Servant. 

The gentleman, ma'am. 

[The curtain is disturbed and the hand vanishes. 

Servant. 

[Approaching the curtain.] I beg your pardon 
ma'am— — 



200 



IRIS 



IfilS. 

Ask him in. 

[The servant goes out at the door at which she 
entered and returns almost immediately 
with Laurence. Laurence is in evening 
dress, hut, in place of his town air, he has 
the bronzed face and slightly stiffened gait 
of a man accustomed to life in the open. 
He is zcearing an overcoat and carries a 
felt hat. The senant withdraws, leaving 
him gazing about him in some bewilder- 
ment. Slowly sur-veying the apartment, he 
puts his hat upon the little table behind the 
settee and is taking off his gloves when the 
portiere again moves and Iris appears. 
She remains in the doorway, her back 
towards him, clutching the curtain. 

Laurence. 

Iris ! 

[She turns and faces him. She is clad entirely 
in black and wears no jewellery or embel- 
lishment of any description. 

Lal-rence. 

Iris— Iris ! 

[He stretches out his arms. For a moment she 
wavers; then, with a swift movement, she 
szveeps across the room and falls upon his 
breast. 



Laurence. 
[Kissing her passionately.] ^ly dearest! my dearest! 



IRIS 201 

Iris, you are unaltered towards me? Iris! tell me you 
are quite unchanged. 

Iris. 

[Murnmrmg his name as she clings to him,] Laurie 
— Laurie — Laurie ! 

Laurence. 

Kiss me — you don't kiss me 

[With a cry, she takes his head between her 
hands and kisses him. 

Laurence. 

Ah ! Nothing has occurred to cause you to with- 
draw your love from me? I only want you to assure 
me of that. 

Iris. 

[Her arms twined about his neck.] I love you — I 
love you — I love you 

Laurence. 

Thank God ! Your silence has driven me almost dis- 
tracted. How could you be so cruel to me? 



Iris. 

[Hiding her face against his shoulder,} Cruel — 
cruel — yes, cruel ! 

Laurence. 

What had I done to deserve it? I can't understand 
your motive 



202 IRIS 

Iris. 
Hush ! Wait — not yet — not yet. Kiss me again. 

Laurence. 

[Obeying her.] Ah! ah! Ha, ha! Let me look at 
you. [Holding her at arm's length.] I am dying to 
look at you. 

Iris. 

[Her eyes closed.] Ah? 

Laurence. 
You are more beautiful than ever. 

Iris. 
[Swooningly.] Oh ! 

Laurence. 

Your face ! it was always divine, but it has become 
still more spiritual — saint-like 

Iris. 
Ah, ha? 

Laurence. 

[Passing his hand over her brow.] I see — ^you have 
dressed your hair away from your forehead. That is 
it — you resemble the pictures of angels one was fa- 
miliar with in childhood. 

Iris. 
A — a dark angel ! 



IRIS 



2Q3 



Laurence. 

[Observing her dress for the first time.] Why, yes; 
I didn't notice — Dearest, are you in mourning? 



Iris. 

[Supporting herself upon his arm as she looks into 
his face.] Mourning? This is not mourning: it is 
merely black. Nothing but the loss of you would make 
it mourning. [With an attempt at brightness.] Ha! 
it was my fancy to receive you in this gown. 

[She turns from him and walks away, a little 
unsteadily, to the fireplace, 

Laurence. 

[Following her.] How long may I remain with you? 
You are not going to send me away quickly? 

Iris. 

That depends upon yourself. I — I .am free for the 
rest of the evening. 

Laurence. 

[Gaily.] Depends upon me! [Taking off his over- 
coat and throwing it over the back of the chair on the 
left of the fireplace.] Well, a month would hardly suf- 
fice for me to say all I have to say to you. [Returning 
to her and seizing her hands, ivhich lie presses again 
and again to his lips.] Dearest, why — why did you 
cease writing to me? The torture of waiting for that 
infernal post ! What could have been your reason? 



204 IRIS 

Iris. 

[Tremblingly.] What did you imagine it was — did 
you think I was ill? 

Laurence. 

At first. I cabled home to Miss Sylvain, asking her 
if it was so. 

Iris. 

To Fanny Sylvain ! 

Laurence. 

And received a laconic reply — ''best of health." 
There my pride stepped in. Oh, the soil of a lonely 
ranche is favourable to the cultivation of a certain sort 
of sullen pride ! Ah, but the agony of it ! Iris, the 

theories I formed — all of them incorrect, doubtless ! 

Now, at last, you can blow them away with a breath 

Iris. 

[Plucking at his sleeve.] Laurence^have you seen 
Croker ? 

Laurence. 
[Nodding.] Last night. 

Iris. 

Yes; but to-day ? 

Laurence. 

No. He merely left a note at my hotel, giving me 
your message. 



IRIS 205 

Iris. 

Message ? 

Laurence. 

That I was to be here, at your lodgings, at nine. 

Iris. 
Nothing further? 

Laurence. 
[Shaking his head.] Nothing further. 

Iris. 

And you've met no one else of our acquaintance? 

Laurence. 

Nobody. [Smiling.] I've been frantically busy, try- 
ing to make myself presentable for this visit. 

Iris. 
Those theories of yours — what were they? 

Laurence. 

One of them — [looking about the room, a trace of 
apprehension in his voice] don't tell me there was ever 
any ground for it 

Iris. 

One of them ? 

Laurence. 

Was that your friends had come to your assistance, 
on condition that you broke faith with a struggling, 



2o6 IRIS 

hard-working fellow in British Columbia. [Embracing 

her.] Ah, forgive me! 

[The chair in which Iris was seated, at break- 
fast, in the preceding act is now on the 
further side of the table with its back to the 
fireplace. She releases herself from Lau- 
rence's embrace and sits in this chair, a 
desperate look in her eyes, steeling herself 
for her task. 

Laurence. 

[Leaning over her shoulder.] Dearest, can you blame 
me? As I have said — the distorted ideas solitude gives 

rise to ! [Surveying the room once more.] And 

even now I can't help feeling puzzled [Dropping his 

voice.] What a charming place you have here! 

Iris. 
[Faintly.] Ah? 

Laurence. 

Did your new lawyer manage to recover for you 
more than he expected? [Struck by a new thought.] 
Iris, surely you have not been angry with yourself 
for not fulfilling your promise to starve during my 
absence? 

Iris. 

[Her elbows on the table, digging her fingers into her 
hair.] You — you are nearing the truth! 

Laurence. 
[Fervently, his lips close to her ear.] Oh, my love! 



IRIS 



207 



my dear love ! in whatever way these comforts have 
come to you, how could you doubt that I should be 
the first to rejoice that you have not, after all, been 
waiting for me in privation and anxiety? 

Iris. 

[In a hard, level voice — gently pushing him from 

her.] Laurence — it is about — the way in which these 

comforts have come to me — that I want to talk to you. 

[She points to the settee and he seats himself 

there, a growing fear expressed in his face. 

Iris. 

[Sitting upright, her body stiff, her eyes averted — 
with the little twist of her mouth.] Laurie, this charm- 
ing place is not mine. 



No? 



Laurence. 



Iris. 



That is — it is not maintained by myself. 

Laurence. 
By your friends — as I supposed? 

Iris. 

By a friend. [A pause.] A friend. [A further 
pause.] Yes, there is something — in your theory 



Laurence. 
[Shortly.] Oh? [Slowly.] You mean the condition 



2o8 IRIS 

does exist — the condition obliging you to be untrue 

to me? Iris ! 

[With an effort she turns her head and meets 
his gaze. 

Iris. 

[Deliberately.] It is a man-friend. 

[He allows the words to soak into his brain, 
then he rises and advances to her. She 
rises with him and they stand, facing each 
other, on opposite sides of the table. 



A man-friend? 


Laurence. 


Mr. Maldonado. 


Iris. 




Laurence. 


[Under his breath.] 


Maldonado ! 




Iris. 



He is master here. 

Laurence. 
Master ! I — ^you must speak plainer. 

Iris. 
He — intended to take his revenge 

Laurence. 
Revenge ! 

Iris. 

He never rested — never rested — until 



Until- 



IRIS 209 

Laurence. 

Iris. 



He was able — to cry quits with you. 

[Laurence recoils. Opening her eyes imdely, 
she gives him a final look of guilt and 
abasement ; then she collapses suddenly, 
dropping into her chair and laying her head 
and outstretched arms upon the table. He 
continues staring at her for a time; ulti- 
mately, covering his face with his hands, lie 
sinks upon the settee. 

Iris. 

[Lifting her head.] No, he never left me alone. 
Theres no palliation in that, perhaps, no excuse — but 
he never left me alone. [Bursting into tears.] Oh, I 
meant to be poor ! I meant to be poor ! 

[She rises and goes to the fireplace, upon which 
she leans, weeping. 



Iris. 

He — he placed some money at my disposal before 
he quitted Cadenabbia — opened an account for me, 
without my leave, at his bank in London. That was 
the beginning of it — the beginning of the path lead- 
ing down to this awful abyss. I remained at Tremezzo 
barely a fortnight. I went there, as you know, because 
it was at Tremezzo we had passed such delicious hours ; 
and I believed your spirit would linger about those 
quiet spots where we had been constantly together, you 



210 IRIS 

with your sketch-book on j^our knees, I close to you. 
both silent and happy. And so it was — only your 
presence became a reproach to me instead of a solact, 
a haunting reproach; for almost from the very mo- 
ment of my receiving it, my hand accustomed itself 
to scrawling cheques, for one object and another, in 
the cheque-book he had considerately furnished me 
with. Therefore, finding my conscience wouldn't let 
me sit with your spirit in those dear retreats, I packed 
my trunks and slunk awa^^ to Varese. 

[He has not stirred. She looks at his stricken 

figure zi'ofuUy and wanders towards the 

writing-table. 



Iris. 

Varese I At \'are5e I found Jiim, waiting for me. 
Unfortunately I had written to him informing him of 
my arrangements; and there he was, in the courtyard 
of the little hotel, and he came forward to greet me. 
I confess I was glad to meet him; it was a familiar 
face — [advancing to the table in the centre] Varese! 
How man}' times have I cursed Varese ! He intro- 
duced me to some people who were wintering there — 
people who attached themselves to me. gave me treats, 
took me upon excursions. These I returned with in- 
terest. I felt myself compelled to have a small salon 
in which to entertain my new acquaintances — I who 
ought to have been weighing ever>^ sou ; and soon, the 
afternoons growing chill}-, I must needs send to Milan 
for a sable paletot to -drive in. You see — step by step — 

he looking on ! And throughout all this I was 

allowing you to believe I was fighting the battle of 
poverty with you ! 



b 



IRIS 211 

[He stirs slightly. She essays to put a hand 
upon his shoulder^ but falters and draws 
back. 



Iris. 



After I had spent a couple of months at Varese, some- 
body proposed that we should move to Rome. And to 
Rome we went — the whole party. [Pressing her hands 
to her brow.] Rome! Rome! It was at Rome, shortly 
after we arrived there, that I discovered I had over- 
drawn my account at his bank. Strangely enough, he 
was advised of the circumstance by the same mail — of 
course, it was the crisis he had been waiting for — and 
he came to me promptly with his pocket-book in his 
hand. Then it was that my eyes were opened. Early 
next day I sold my sables for a third of their value 
and made off — got out of the city — fled — literally fled. 
And there commenced my long term of penury. Lau- 
rence, if you ever forgive me — if I am ever to be for- 
given in this world or hereafter — it will be because of 
my sufferings during the months that followed my 
flight from Rome. Finding myself hopelessly embar- 
rassed, I set myself to hunt-up my old friends in Eng- 
land. Friends ! Ha ! the scandal of our travelling 
abroad together — you and I — furnished them with a 
ready excuse to del erately turn their backs upon a 
woman who had lost fortune and position. Only Fanny 
and Croker were left — Fanny living on relations at 
Stranraer, Croker upon his meagre salary as secretary 
of a club! Mainly to spare poor Croker the sight of 
me, I hid myself in cheap sea-side resorts out of their 
season, at the approach of their season crept inland to 
a stuffy town — all the while sinking further, further into 
debt and difficulty I At last every device for keeping 



n 



212 IRIS 

my head above water was exhausted. I had even con- 
trived to pledge the tiny income remaining from the 
wreck of my affairs, and I was without a shilling — 
absolutely without a shilling — ^my clothes nearly falling 
off me, my shoes in holes — ah ! I was in London again 
by that time; it was as if I had come home for the 
finish. The horror of it ! the back room in the narrow, 
grimy street; the regular, shameful visit to the pawn- 
broker's; the listless, mechanical stroll out in the dusk 

for air and exercise ! I! I — ^your Iris -! [At 

the head of the settee.] And one evening — ^he was con- 
tinually tracing me and dogging my steps — one evening 
I met him and let him walk beside me ; and — ^he handed 

me the key of this flat. Oh ! [Turning azi'ay and 

throwing herself upon the divan.] They were waiting 
for me — ^these pretty rooms; they had been kept pre- 
pared for me for months. That was my. deepest dis- 
grace — ^that he seemed to be so certain I should find 
my way here. 

[She lies upon the divan, sobbing and moaning. 

Laurence removes his hands from his face 

and looks about him vacantly. Then he 

rises and zcalks, stiMy and heaz'Uy, to the 

fireplace. 



Laurence. 

[Staring into the Urc — speaking in a toneless, expres- 
sionless voice.] I — I am intensely sorry for you. Iris. 



Iris. 
[Raising her head, faint and exhausted.] Eh ? 



IRIS 213 

Laurence. 
I — I am sincerely sorry for you. 

Iris. 

[Putting her disordered hair hack from her brow.] 

Sorry for me ? I — I knew you would be. I — I 

was sure 

[She leaves the divan and goes a little zvay 
towards him. Then, seeing that he does not 
turn to her, she checks herself. 

Iris. 

[^3; the settee, feebly.] Ah — ah, yes — I ought to have 
spared you from learning it in this abrupt fashion. 
[Sitting upon the settee, her eyes closed, her head rest- 
ing against the back of the settee.] How pitiless women 
are — especially to those they love, and have injured! 
Poor Laurie ! But, dear, the first few weeks of my 
stay here were lived in a kind of stupor — inertia. I 
couldn't think — I couldn't reason. I didn't realise the 
dishonour — only that I was well-housed again. And 
afterwards — at one moment I would find myself hop- 
ing that the shocking news might reach you from other 
sources, at the next that my breaking-off with you 
might keep you from returning to England and that, 
by some miracle, you'd never hear the truth — at any 
rate, till I had passed away. And so the months went 
on — and on 

Laurence. 

[Partly turning to her.] This man — he wished to 
marry you once 



214 IRIS 

Iris. 

He wishes it still, to do him justice. Now that he 
has — oh ! — revenged himself upon us, he finds out that 
he wishes to tie me to him. 

Laurence. 
[Facing her.] He is in earnest? he means it? 

Iris. 

In earnest ! indeed, yes. And I — I suppose I should 
have acceded to his wish ultimately, if this had not 
happened — if you had not come back. [Sitting upright 
and putting her hands together pray erf ully.] Laurie — 
Laurie 

Laurence. 
[Averting his eyes.] Iris 

Iris. 

[Going down upon her knees beside the table and 
bozving her head upon her clasped hands.] Laurie — 
Laurie — Laurie 

Laurence. 
I — I am very sorry. 

[He turns to the chair on his right and takes 
up his overcoat. Looking up, she sees his 
action. 

Iris. 

[Under her breath.] Ah! [Struggling to her feet.] 
What are you doing? 




IRIS 215 



Laurence. 

[Hanging his head.] I — I am sorry. 

[She retreats, watching his movements. He 
goes to the table upon which he has de- 
posited his hat. 

Iris. 

Oh ! [He picks up his hat.] No ! 

[He advances, always avoiding her gaze, and 
stands before her looking upon the ground. 



Iris. 

You — you can't pardon me? Oh, try. [She waits 
for a reply, but he is silent.] I had my good resohi- 
tions, Laurie; it was through them that we separated, 
if you remember — that I refused to go out with you. 
The little good in me, then, has proved my downfall. 
That's hard. 

Laurence. 
I — I'm sorry. 

Iris. 

You could trust me now, dear, if you would but take 
me back with you. Oh, it would save me from so much 
that is hateful. Try! [A pause.] No? You — you 
feel you can't? 

Laurence. 
[Inarticulately.] I'm sorry. 

Iris. 
[Supporting herself by leaning upon the chair by the 



2i6 IRIS 

writing-table.] Have you prospered? Would the home 
have been ready for me? 

Laurence. 
Yes. 

Iris. 

[Dropping her head upon her breast.] Oh! [Rally- 
ing a little and returning to him.] Well, I don't re- 
proach you. If I were a man, I suppose I should do 
precisely as you are doing. [Piteously.] Only I 
thought, as my first wrong step was taken for love of 
you 

Laurence. 
[Covering his eyes with his hand.] Iris — Iris ! 



Iris. 

Hush ! I ought not to have said that to you ; that 
wasn't fair. 

[She cries for a moment, softly, then dries her 
eyes and offers him her hand. He takes it. 

Iris. 

By-and-by — in a little while — send me a photograph 
of that log-house of yours. Merely slip it into an 
envelope — wall you? [He inclines his head.] Thanks. 

I should dearly like to have one — just to see 

[She withdravjs her hand and, after a brief 
struggle with himself, he goes to the door. 
Almost involuntarily, she totters after him 
for a few steps; but he leaves her zvithout 
looking back. When he has gone, she drops 
upon the settee and sits there stunned and 



IRIS 217 

motionless. There is a pause; then the 
door on the right opens quietly and Maldo- 
NADO appears. He is still in his morning 
dress, hut his necktie is disarranged and his 
eyes are bloodshot and his face livid. He 
comes to her and lays his hand upon her 
shoulder. With a cry of terror, she twists 
her body round and faces him. 

Maldonado. 

Your visitor has departed — eh? 

[She rises and backs away from him towards 
the left. He follows her. 

Maldonado. 

You rag of a woman ! you double-faced trull ! you 
liar! 

Iris. 

Hush! Maldo ! 

Maldonado. 

Ah ! 

[He seises her by the arms and hurls her on to 
the settee. Then he stands over her, his 
eyes aflame. 

Maldonado. 
You ! 

Iris. 

Hush! Maldo! don't hurt me! Maldo! 

[Gripping her wrist, he pulls her up from the 
settee violently. 



2i8 IRIS 



Iris. 



Maldo! Maldo! don't hurt me! Maldo ! 

[He throws her from him again and she stum- 
bles towards the fireplace, where she falls 
into the chair by the table. Once more he 
goes after her, uttering ferocious sounds, 
his angers extended like claws. In the end, 
he forces himself to quit her side and stag- 
gers to the settee, upon which, his rage par- 
tially spent, he drops panting. There is si- 
lence betzveen them for a time, broken only 
by her sobs and his heavy breathing. 

Iris. 
Oh! oh! oh! 

Maldonado. 

Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho, ho ! So — so — so you've lost 
your second sweetheart, have you? Or am I Number 
Two? Which of us do you rank first? 

Iris. 
You — ^you know? You have listened, then? 

Maldonado. 

[Nodding scowlingly.] He cleared out pretty sharply. 
Your influence is a diminishing quantity, my dear. You 
must be getting old. 

Iris. 
How did you — learn ? 



I 



IRIS 219 

Maldonado. 

The note you wrote to him this morning, and tore 
up. You shouldn't have thought better of committing 
yourself to paper and then have scattered the scraps of 
your love-letter about your writing-table. [She glances 
at the waste-paper basket.] That dog Harrington is 
running your errands, is he? 

[She rises feebly and goes to the mantelpiece, 
upon which she leans. 

Maldonado. 

Ha! an enjoyable day youVe all given me! I've 
been in this accursed street for hours, waiting for Mas- 
ter Laurence to arrive or for you to come out. 

Iris. 
Well, you see he has left me — left me for good 

Maldonado. 

Yes, the fellow has more sense than I, after all; a 
great deal more sense than I. [Rising and crossing the 
room, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.] What an 
escape ! what an escape ! 

Iris. 
Escape ? 

Maldonado. 

Escape. [Wiping the sweat from his brozv.] Phew! 
you're the sort of woman that sends a hot-blooded man 
to the gallows, my dear 



220 IRIS 

Iris. 

No, no, no, no 



Maldonado. 

You're not too old for that, still. Yes, to-day reads 
me a lesson. [Partly to himself.] Tsch ! what a lesson, 
Freddy ! what a lesson ! 

[Absorbed in thought, he moves towards the 
mantelpiece. She shrinks from him and 
comes to the settee. 



Maldonado. 

Oh, don't be frightened — my fit's over. [Sitting, star- 
ing before him, his fingers drumming upon the table.] 
Only I must be careful in the future — more careful in 
the future. The risk is toiD deadly. 



Iris. 

[Seated upon the settee, eyeing him wonderingly.] 
Risk ? 

Maldonado. 

[Agaiit partly to himself.] I have no ambition to 
figure in the dock some day. That's not my game. 
[To her.] I come of a race whose qualities are curi- 
ously blended, my dear — made up partly of passion, 
partly of prudence. For some years now, thanks to 
you, I've been letting the first run away with me. 
[Drawing a deep breath.] I can't afiFord that. Freddy 
Maldonado can't afford that. [Bringing his fist down 
upon the table heavily.] To-night ends it— cuds it! 



IRIS 221 

[Rising and pointing to the door which admits to the 
hall] You can go. 

Iris. 
Go ? 

Maldonado. 
This place is mine 

Iris. 
Maldo ! 

Maldonado. 
You'll take your departure. 

Iris. 

Maldo ! 

Maldonado. 
You hear? 

Iris. 
[Rising.] When — when ? 

Maldonado. 
Now. I desire to be left alone. 

Iris. 
[Beivildered.] To-night? 

Maldonado. 
At once. This is your punishment, my dear 



222 IRIS 

Iris. 
Ah! 

Maldonado. 

To drift back to the condition in which I found you 
a few months since. This is your reward. 

Iris. 
Maldo ! 

Maldonado. 

[Ringing the bell] Go. 

[There is a pause, during which he continues 
ringing. Suddenly she stiffens her body 
and, like one walking in a dream, crosses 
the room and goes out at the door on the 
left. The servant appears. 

Maldonado. 

[To the servant.'] You'll all leave my service to- 
morrow, you women. 



Servant. 



Sir ! 



Maldonado. 

Wages shall be paid you in lieu of notice, and a 
present given you. 

Servant. 
Thank you, sir. 

Maldonado. 

Tell your fellow-servants. 



IRIS 223 

Servant. 
Yes, sir. 

Maldonado. 

[Listening.] That'll do. 

[Tlit servant withdraws as Iris returns wear- 
ing a hat and cape and carrying her gloves. 
Her head still erect, she moves towards the 
door leading to the hall. 

Maldonado. 

[Playing with his heard.] You — er 

[Upon hearing his voice, she halts abruptly in 
the centre of the room. 

Maldonado. 

You can send for your trinkets and clothes in the 
morning. After that, let me hear no more of you. 
[She remains motionless, as if stricken.] I've nothing 
further to say. 

[A slight shiver runs through her frame and 
she resumes her walk. At the door, she 
feels blindly for the handle ; finding it, she 
opens the door narrovuly and passes out. 
Directly the door closes behind her, Mal- 
donado utters a fierce cry and, zvith one 
movement of his arm, sweeps the china and 
bric-a-brac from the mantelpiece. The frag- 
ments are scattered about the room. 



224 IRIS 

Maldonado. 

Ah! ah! Ho, ho! 

[He overturns the table with a savage kick; 
then, raising a chair high in the air, he 
dashes it to the Hoor and breaks it into 
splinters. The curtain falls finally. 



THE END 



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THE GAY LORD QUEX, by Arthur W. Pinero. With pictures of 
John Hare and his company. s'4^x73<(in. $1.25. 

IRIS, by Arthur W. Pinero. Illustrated. 5^4^ x 75^: in. $1.00. 

CYRANO DE BERGERAC, by Edmond Rostand. Authorized 
translation. With portrait of Coquelin. sK x 7X in. $1.00. 

L*AIQLON, by Edmond Rostand. Only English translation. With 
pictures of Maude Adams and portrait of the Duke of Reich- 
stadt. sKxSYin. $1.50. Limited edition, bound in leather, 
stamped in gold, $5.00 net. 

THE FANTASTICS. by Edmond Rostand. 4K x 6% in. $1.00. 

NATHAN HALE, by Clyde Fitch. With pictures of Nat Goodwin 
and Maxine Elliot. sK x 8K in. $1.25. 

ALABAMA, by Augustus Thomas, s x 7 in. $1.00. 

ARIZONA, by Augustus Thomas. With pictures of the original 
cast. sKxB^^in. $1.25. 

ROMEO AND JULIET. Maude Adams acting edition. With draw 
ings and photographs. sX x 8K in. Cloth, 50 cents; Paper, 25 
cents. 

LITTLE ITALY, by Horace B. Fry. A one-act tragedy. With pic- 
ture of Mrs. Fiske as Giulia. sH x 7K in. $1 00 net. 

A COMPLETE CATALOGUE, BEAUTIEULLY ILLUS- 
TRATED, OF BOOKS, THEATRICAL AND OTHER 
CALENDARS, PRINTS, ETC., WILL BE SENT TO ANY 
ADDRESS BY 

R.H. Russell, PuWislier, 3 W. 29th St., N.Y. 



THEATRICAL PUBLICATIONS. 



SARAH BERNHARDT, by A. Gallus. Introduction by Madame 
Bernhardt. With many pictures. ' 8K x ii in. EO cents. 

EMMA CALVE, by A. Gallus. With many pictures. 8K xii in. 
$1.50. 

OPERA SINGERS, by Gustav Kcbbe. Biographical sketches, 
fully illustrated. 9 x 12 in. $1,50. 

THE ONLY WAY. Charles Dickens' " A Tale of Two Cities." 
With pictures from Freeman Wills' play, ** The Only Way." 
4 X 6 in. Cloth, 50 cents; Paper, 25 cents. 

THE LITTLE MINISTER, by J. M. Barrie. Maude Adams edition. 
With pictures from the play. 6X xgK in. $2 50. 

STAGE LYRICS, by Harry B. Smith. Words of songs from popu- 
lar comic operas, " Robin Hood," " The Serenade," etc. Fully 
illustrated. 6x9 in. $1.50. 

MAUDE ADAMS, E. H. SOTHERN, ETHEL BARRYMORE. 

Portraits by John W. Alexander. Handsome photogravures. 
16 X 30 in., $i0.00 each; 9 x 18 in., $5.00 each. 

ETHEL BARRYMORE AS MME. TRENTONI IN *♦ CAPT. JINKS 
OF THE HORSE MARINES," by S. Arlent-Edwards. Mezzo- 
tint in colors. Edition limited to 125 signed copies. 12K x 14 in. 
$30.00. 

THE AMERIwAN STAGE. Pictorial review of recent successes. 
Over 250 handsome pictures. 9 x iiK in. $2.50. 

PICTORIAL SOUVENIRS of Maude Adams, Julia Marlowe. Ethel 
Barrymore, Mary Mannering, Edna May, Annie Russell, Will- 
iam Gillette, John Drew, William Faversham, Blanche Bates, 
Weber and Fields, Olga Nethersole, Amelia Bingham, Cissie 
Loftus and Lillian Burkhardt. Each, 25 cents. 



R.H. Russell, PuWisher, 3 W.29tli St, N.Y. 



OCT 31 1902 



